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c-//$7?S$ 

RECOLLECTIONS 

OF 

MY CHILDHOOD, 

AND 


OTHER STORIES. 


BY 


GRACE GREENWOOD,. 


AUTHOR OF “HISTORY OF MY PETS.’ 




■ J I 


WITH ENGRAVINGS FROM DESIGNS BY BJ LUNGS. 



5 > ) 



BOSTON: 

JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY, 

Late Ticknor & Fields, and Fields, Osgood, & Co. 

1871. 


-VZ>\ 

,Y_ ° 

* 


Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1851, 

BY SARA J. CLARKE, 

in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 


Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, 

♦ BY JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO., 
in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington 





University Press : Welch, Bigelow, & Co., 
Cambridge 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

THE OLD CHAIR-MENDER AND HIS GRAND-DAUGHTER . 1 


THE TORN FROCK, A LITTLE STORY 

GIRLS 

FOR 

LITTLE 

• • 

14 

THE RAINBOW-PILGRIMAGE . 

• 

• 

25 

DENNIS O’BRIEN .... 

• 

• * 

34 

tom shelby’s visit to the country . 

• 

• 

45 

THE TWO LADIES FROM THE CITY 

• 

« • 

60 

STORY OF A CHRISTMAS SLEIGH-RIDE 

• 

• 

70 

MY LITTLE GREEK .... 

♦ 

• • 

87 

“MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING” 

• 

• 

105 

THE AUNT FROM THE WEST 

• 

• • 

121 

little Charlie’s will 

• 

• 

132 

THE HERMIT 



148 

EFFIE GRAY’S SLEEP-WALKING 

• 

• 

150 

LIZZIE IN THE MILL 

• 

• • 

160 

JACK AND HIS JACK-o’LANTERNS . 

• 

• 

172 


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RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 


THE OLD CHAIR-MENDER AND HIS 
GRAND-DAUGHTER. 

Perhaps some of my little readers have 
seen in the country chairs bottomed with 
thin strips of wood, or woven bark. These 
make very easy seats, but do not last a 
great while. We had such chairs in our 
kitchen, and about once a year they needed 
repairing. There was an old man, by the 
name of Eichards, who used to do this 
work for us. I remember him now, as 
plainly as though I had seen him only yes- 
terday. He was a little fat man, between 
sixty and seventy years of age, with a 
good-natured, rosy face, and hair as white 
as snow, which was very thick, and hung 
down on his shoulders. He generally wore 


2 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 

a suit of coarse cloth, called “ sheep's 
gray," and a brown felt hat, with a round 
crown and a wide brim. He always came 
in a little unpainted wagon, drawn by a 
sorel one-eyed pony, in a home-made 
harness of light leather, with rope reins. 
I remember that this pony, whose name 
was “ Dolly," had once a little colt, which, 
not being as sober-mannefed and lazy as 
herself, gave her more trouble than pleasure. 
He seemed remarkably cunning, and would 
often get on the blind side of his mother, 
and keep as quiet as a mouse, while the 
poor creature was whinnying for him, in 
great distress. 

Mr. Richards lived in a small log house, 
a few miles east of us, with the only near 
relative he had in the world, — a little 
grand- daughter, named Amy, who, from 
the age of ten years, when her mother 
died, was her grandfather's housekeeper. 

Amy Ellis was one of the best, as she 
was one of the prettiest girls in the coun- 
try, far and wide. People called her “a 


THE OLD CHAIR-MENDER. 




perfect little woman/’ she was so active, 
so steady and industrious. She was strong, 
healthy and happy, and really could do more 
work in a day than many a full-grown 
woman, and with less fuss. She was not 
tall, but rather stout, like her grandfather ; 
her hands were hardened by work, and her 
feet somewhat spread by going without 
shoes in the summer time ; but she had a 
clear brown complexion, rosy cheeks, and 
very handsome hazel eyes. Her frocks 
and aprons, though plain/and cut in rather 
an old- womanly way, were always neat and 
whole, and her grandfather’s clothes were 
kept carefully brushed and mended. 

I can see now that Amy was a very won- 
derful child ; but I own that there was a 
time when I grew tired of her very name, 
from hearing her praised so much, and held 
up as a model for me to imitate. 

Amy had a good deal of taste. I remem- 
ber that she used to train up ivy-vines and 
rose-bushes against her grandfather’s house, 
till you could scarcely see the logs. She 


4 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 

was very fond of her old grandfather, and 
he of her. It was pleasant to see them 
working in the field and garden together, 
or walking to church, or sitting of a Sunday 
evening in the burial-ground, on the rough 
bench, by the graves of old Mrs. Richards 
and Amy’s father and mother. They were 
too poor to put up head-stones ; but they 
had placed boards, with nicely painted 
inscriptions, there, and had planted the 
sweet-brier and violets in great abundance. 

I remember the last chair which Mr. 
Richards mended for us, and how it was 
broken. There was a certain old soldier, a 
very stout man, who was in the habit of 
calling at our house and asking for cider. 
He grew rather troublesome, at last, and my 
mother resolved to give him no more, as he 
was suspected of drinking too much, — 
though, for that matter, any cider is too 
much. But, one hot summer day, he came 
in, and asked for a drink. My mother 
looked at him, saw that he had not been 
drinking, and that he was very tired. So 


THE OLD CHAIR-MENDER. 


5 


she went for the cider herself, calling to 
my brother William to hand the gentleman 
a chair. Will was very mischievous, and 
so brought forward an old arm-chair, the 
bottom of which was broken in several 
places. Of course, Mr. More, tired as he 
was, came down so heavily that all gave way 
under him, and when he rose the chair rose 
with him. My mother returned in time to 
reprove my brother for his “ carelessness,’ ’ 
as she called it. I wish I could believe it 
was carelessness, and no trick. She then 
handed a brimming tumbler to our neigh- 
bor ; he drank one great swallow, then 
made up a dreadful face, set down the glass, 
and hurried angrily out of the house. My 
mother, much astonished, tasted of that 
which was left in the pitcher, and found 
that it was vinegar . What a laugh we 
children had at her “ carelessness ” ! But 
old Mr. More never again called at our 
house for cider. 

Mr. Richards happened along in a day 01 
two, and wove a new bottom for the chair. 


6 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 

That time he brought with him his grand- 
daughter, who was then between eleven 
and twelve years old. My sister and I, 
wishing to amuse her, showed her our dolls ; 
but she said, “ How can you waste so 
many pretty pieces of calico in these little 
frocks and aprons ? I would sew them 
together, and put them into a bed-quilt.” 

We took her to see our pretty pet pig, 
“ Nuggie,” who lived in a little house by 
himself, and was washed every day ; and 
after looking at him a minute, she said, 
“ Do you mean to keep such a nice fat pig 
as that ? If he were mine, I ’d have him 
killed, and roast him.” 

I thought this was very cruel of Amy, 
for our Nuggie was no common pig ; he 
was civilized and good-mannered, and we 
had taught him a great many cunning tricks. 
I afterwards asked my mother if it was not 
a hard-hearted remark ; but she replied that 
Amy looked more to the useful than the 
ornamental. Poor Nuggie died that very 


THE OLD CHAIR-MENDER. 


7 


summer, of cholera- morbus, from my over- 
feeding him with green apples. 

Amy seemed most pleased with our ducks 
and a pair of twin calves, which, she said, 
were nearly as thriving as her own ; but 
she soon went into the house, took out her 
knitting, and sat down near her grand- 
father. My mother was making some pastrj 
in the kitchen, and Mr. Eichards was con- 
versing with her. I remember that he was 
talking of a neighbor of ours, who, he 
said, was well enough off, but who had sold 
out, “ pulled up stakes,” and started for 
the far-away State of Ohio, in hopes of 
making his fortune. He said, “ As for me, 
I have lamed 6 in whatsoever state I am, 
therewith to be content,’ and all I want, 
here below, is food and raiment, and mid- 
dling good clothing, and three meals of 
victuals a day.” 

“ Why, grandfather,” said Amy, “ does 
anybody ask more than that ?” 

“ Yes, child,” he answered ; “ some folks 
take a notion that they must be rich or 
2 


8 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 

great. I had a brother that never would 
give up peddling till he was worth a thou - 
sand dollars ; and my father, your great 
grandfather, was a Justice of the Peace : 
but I don’t think he was ever the happier 
for his greatness. I rather think that it 
shortened his life, though he was a-most 
eighty when he died.” 

My mother invited Amy to stay with us 
that night and the next day ; but she 
answered, “ I thank you, — I cannot possibly 
stay, for to-morrow is my baking-day.” 

When she was going, we children offered 
to lend her some of our story-books. She 
looked at them as though she longed to take 
them ; then shook her head, and said to my 
mother, “ I have no time to read such things 
as these ; but, if you could lend me a good 
cookery-book, I should be very glad.” 

The very autumn after the visit I have 
described, Mr. Richards was taken down 
with a fever. The neighbors kindly offered 
assistance, and did all they could for him ; 
but he liked best to be tended by Amy, and 


THE OLD CHAIR- MENDER. 


9 


she wished to do all the nursing for him. 
One afternoon, when he seemed somewhat 
better, and nobody, not even the doctor, 
thought him dangerously ill, it happened 
that Amy was alone with him. As she sat 
by his bedside, he stretched out his thin 
hand and laid it on her head, saying, in a 
faint voice, “Poor Amy, I am sorry to 
leave you ; you have been a good child to 
me. Keep a good girl, love God, and He ’ll 
take care of you. You must n’t live here 
all alone when I am gone ; but you ’ll see 
that somebody takes care of old Dolly.” 

“Why, grandfather,” said Amy, “you 
will live to take care of her yourself.” 

Mr. Richards was silent a moment ; then 
he asked, 

“ Is there room between your mother and 
your grandmother for me ? They ’ll have 
to take up the sweet-brier ; but, if it dies, 
maybe you ’ll plant another over your poor 
old grand ’ther.” 

“ 0, grandfather,” cried Amy, “ don’t 


10 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 

talk so, — don't ! You will live a great many 
years yet, won't you, dear grandfather ? " 

“ Well Amy, I 'll try ," he said ; “ and 
now I think I will sleep a little." 

He turned his face toward the wall, and 
lay very quiet. Amy sat by him more than 
an hour ; then she went out softly and made 
him some nice broth. When she came in 
with this, she thought that he had slept long 
enough ; so, laying her hand lightly on his 
shoulder, she said, “ Come, grandfather, 
wake up and take your broth before it gets 
cold !" But he did not wake. She stooped 
over him, and when she saw his face, she 
started with fear ; it was so white, and the 
eyes were so sunken. She laid her hand 
on his forehead, and it was quite cold. Her 
grandfather was dead ! 

Then Amy flung herself down beside 
him, wound her arms about his neck, and 
cried aloud. 

It happened that a stranger gentleman 
and his wife were at that moment passing 
the house in a travelling carriage, and hear- 


THE OLD CHAIR-MENDER. 


11 


ing the mournful cries of the poor girl, 
they alighted and came in. The first that 
Amy knew, she was lifted gently up from 
the bed, and when she looked round she 
saw a lady in deep mourning, who held her 
in her arms, and was striving to comfort 
her. She had never seen the sweet face 
of that lady before ; but she loved her at 
once, and clung to her as though she were 
her own mother. 

The strangers, Mr. and Mrs. Temple, had 
a little while before lost their only child, a 
daughter, about the age of Amy ; and after 
hearing Amy’s sad story, and seeing her 
lonely condition, they resolved to befriend 
her. They stayed in the village near by 
till after the funeral of Mr. Richards, wait- 
ing to take his grand-daughter home with 
them. 

When Mr. Temple had led the weeping 
Amy out of the little log house, so many 
years her dear home, and handed her into 
his carriage, he was heard to tell the driver 
to drive rather slowly, so as not to hurry toe 


12 KECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 

much lazy old Dolly, who was fastened 
behind. 

Mr. and Mrs. Temple soon grew to loving 
Amy very much, and finally adopted her as 
their own daughter. They were wealthy 9 
and thinking that she should have a fine 
education, they concluded to send her to a 
fashionable boarding-school. But, though 
Amy was clever, and proved to be a diligent 
scholar, she was neither happy nor healthy 
there. She grew so pale and languid, at 
last, that her friends took her home, and 
began to nurse her, and give her medicine. 
But, one morning, Mrs. Temple missed her 
from the sick room. She searched through 
the house, and at length found her in 
the kitchen, busy at the ironing-table. Then 
it was agreed upon that Amy should do 
some house-work every day, and study at 
home ; and, I assure you, it was not long 
before she was in fine health and spirits. 

Amy is a woman now, and has a house 
of her own to manage. She married a lit- 
erary man — a poet, and a writer of stories. 


tHE OLD CHAIR-MENDER. 13 

£ have heard it said that she took him 
instead of any one of her wealthy lovers, 
because she knew that, as his wife, she 
should not be obliged to play the fine lady, 
but would always have plenty of good hard 
work to do. 


THE TORN FROCK. — A LITTLE STORY FOR 
LITTLE GIRLS. 

I was the most unlucky child in the world 
in respect to my clothes. My frocks and 
aprons never kept whole, like those of other 
little girls, hut somehow went to pieces 
before I knew it. If there was a brier in 
my path, it was sure to fasten itself to my 
pantalet, and tear the trimming off. If 
a nail protruded from a box, I was sure to 
come in contact with it, and find it was too 
much for me. If a rail had an ugly splinter, 
I was sure to undertake to get over the 
fence in that very place ; and if there was 
a thorn-bush on my way from school, just 
as I was under full speed, my skirts were 
sure to be blown against it, and awful con- 
sequences to follow. 

Some people said that these sad acci- 
dents happened to' my clothes because I 


THE TORN FROCK. 


15 


never was slow or thoughtful, hut did every- 
thing with a hop, skip, and jump. But I 
knew it was luck . I was horn to have my 
frocks torn. My mother sometimes talked 
of dressing me in stout brown linen ; but it 
would have been of no use. I don’t think 
I should have been safe in a canvas frock 
and cassimere pantalets. 

When I was between seven and eight 
years of age, my mother went away from 
home, to spend some months, and left us 
children under the care of a housekeeper. I 
suppose that the widow Wilkins was a very 
respectable, well-meaning woman ; she kept 
the house neatly, sent us regularly to school, 
and gave us enough to eat ; but I do think 
she was rather too hard on me for tearing my 
clothes. She didn’t seem to believe in it 
being all ill luck. Sometimes I would steal 
slyly into the house, about dusk, with a 
rent in my frock carefully pinned up, hoping 
it would escape her notice ; but she never 
failed to spy it out, and to be down upon 
me at once. You would have thought that 
3 


16 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 

she mistook me for her bottle of bitters, 
labelled, “ When taken, to be well shaken,” 
she exercised me in such a remarkable man- 
ner ; then she would settle me in my chair, 
as though she meant that I never should 
rise again on any occasion. But I did not 
care so much for these things as I did for 
her talk. Such long lectures as she would 
give me on my carelessness ; such awful 
warning of the poverty and want I was 
bringing on myself; such dreadful stories 
she would tell of the melancholy end of 
little girls who kept on “ slitting up ” their 
frocks and rending their pinafores ! 

In late years, I have heard women speak 
in public — lecture and preach, sometimes 
talking very fast, and often quite loud and 
brave ; but, even now, as I look back, I 
think the widow Wilkins was a wonderful 
woman with her tongue. 

I did not improve under her severe 
rule. I am sorry to say that I rather grew 
worse ; for now, when I was not careless 


THE TORN FROCK. 


r 


I was awkward, from fear of her, and 
blundered into tearing my clothes. 

At last, our mother came home. How 
well I remember that morning ! She 
arrived early, came to our beds, and waked 
us with her kisses. I remember how she 
laughed at our youngest, Albert, who did 
not know her at first, and as he was very 
bashful, hid under the bed-clothes, and 
when she caught him and pulled him out, 
said, joyfully, “0, it’s you, mamma! I 
thought ’twas a lady” 

I remember that she brought the little 
fellow some toys, the like of which were 
never seen in our part of the country. 
There was a wee man, called 4 ‘Merry 
Andrew,” with a mouth on the broad grin, 
and you had only to pull a string to make 
him fling out his legs and throw up his arms 
: n a surprising manner. There was a cob- 
bler always mending a shoe that was never 
done, and a pasteboard cuckoo, which, with 
a little squeezing, would send forth a sound 
which we were so polite as to call singing. 


18 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 

This my little brother smashed the next 
day, to see what made the noise. But, most 
wonderful of all, was a village, the little 
white block-houses all standing in rows on 
a green board, and with little figures of men 
and women which you could move about. 
There was a meeting-house, with a sharp 
steeple ; and when all was rightly fixed, a 
minister, with a very long face, was just 
going into the door, and the people were 
following him. But Albert turned this 
minister round, moved him across the street, 
and made him going into the tavern-door, 
which we told him was very wrong. 

My sister Carrie and myself received each 
a pretty black-eyed doll, all dressed, and a 
new frock. Such splendid fine-lady dolls 
we had never before seen. Why, they 
actually had knee-joints and elbow-joints, 
and red Morocco shoes !_ Our frocks were 
of fine buff lawn, figured with the tiniest 
white rose-buds in the world ; and our mother 
made them in some wonderful new fashion, 


THE TORN FROCK. 


19 


which almost threw us into convulsions of 
delight. 

There was in a distant part of the yard, 
surrounding our house, an old apple-tree, 
among the lower branches of which I had a 
favorite seat, which I used to reach by the 
help of a board, leaned against the trunk 
of the tree. Two or three crooked limbs 
formed an easy seat, and one higher up 
made a nice shelf for books and playthings. 

I have heard that the great poetess, Mrs. 
Hemans, when a little girl of seven, had such 
a perch, where she read Shakspeare. I never 
undertook such fine reading in my apple- 
tree, but I read “The Babes in the Wood” 
and “ Goody Two-Shoes” there, with great 
pleasure ; and, though I was no genius, 
I rather think I understood them quite 
as well as she understood her grand old 
Shakspeare. On my shelf, in pleasant 
weather, I kept two rather plainly-dressed 
cloth-dolls, called Polly and Betsy ; and to 
these I went to complain when I had been 
ill-used at school, or widow Wilkins' scold- 


20 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 

ing had been more than I could bear. I 
liked to talk to these two friends, they lis- 
tened so respectfully, never interrupting or 
contradicting me. I can’t say that they 
comforted me, as I was obliged to say every- 
thing for them ; but they never blamed me, 
or in any way took sides against me. 

When, for the first time, I was dressed 
in my new buff lawn, and it had been 
admired by all in the house, I felt that I 
really must give Polly and Betsy a sight of 
it; and soon I was up in my lofty seat, 
spreading out my fine gown, and talking of 
the color, the fit, the ruffles and tucks, in 
two little admiring voices, which I made 
believe came from the pink button-hole 
mouths of Polly and Betsy. When they 
had said all the pretty and strong words I 
could think of, I very uncivilly forgot their 
presence, took up my book, and began to 
read. The day was sultry, I was tired ; the 
story was an old one, and, at last, I fell 
fast asleep. When I awoke, some time after 
sunset, I found that one of my mischievous 


THE TORN FROCK. 


21 


brothers had taken the board away from the 
tree, and that I must get down as best I 
could. I was too proud and independent 
to call for help, though I knew the boys 
must be somewhere near, but jumped at 
once. As usual, I forgot to gather my 
frock around me; and, as I leaped from my 
perch, there came an awful sound ! — a 
sound I knew too well. As I rose from the 
ground and looked about me, I found that 
my beautiful new frock was torn half across 
one breadth, in that hateful zigzag way 
that my frocks were always tearing. Of 
course, the first thing I did was to sit down 
and have a good cry ; then I stole up to my 
chamber by the back stairs, took off my 
buff lawn, folded it, laid it away in my 
drawer, and put on an old gingham frock, 
feeling that it was vastly too good for me. 

After a while, I went down to supper, 
though I felt sure I could not swallow a 
mouthful. As I took my seat at the table, 
my brother Rufus looked up from his bowl 
of bread and milk, and said, “ 0 ho ! you ’ve 


22 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 

come down, have you ? I thought you had 
gone to roost for the night.” 

I wished to make a clean breast of it, and 
tell all to my mother, hut did not dare, for 
fear she would punish me, or give me what 
widow Wilkins had taught me to dread a 
thousand times more — a severe scolding. 
That night, oh, how I longed to have some 
kind fairy come, when I was fast asleep, and 
nicely darn my torn frock! I thought, too, 
that the wicked being, whose name I never 
then dared to speak, and even now would 
rather not mention, — that the evil one would 
not be so very bad, after all, if he would go 
about sewing tears for poor unlucky little 
girls while they slept ! 

The next day, at noon, my mother said 
that I need not go back to school, but might 
go with her to spend the afternoon at a 
neighbor’s house, a most pleasant place. I 
knew that she would tell me to wear my 
new buff lawn ; so I answered, I would 
rather go to school, if you please.” My 
mother was surprised at this, but she praised 


THE TORN FROCK. 


23 


me for being so fond of my books. How 
ashamed I felt at her praises ! That night, 
she told me that she had invited some little 
girls of the house where she had visited to 
spend the next afternoon with me. In the 
morning, I longed more than ever to tell 
her all; I even began, — but the w T ords 
seemed to choke me, and I ran away to 
school without having confessed. I knew 
I should be required to put on the lawn ; 
and I lingered on the way home, and paused 
a long time on the door-step, fearing to go 
in, because then my secret must come out. 
At last, I softly opened the door, and 
stepped into the sitting-room. My mother sat 
by the window, sewing. I went up to her 
so quietly that she did not hear me. In her 
lap lay my new buff frock, and she was 
putting the last stitches into the nicest piece 
of darning ever done in the world ! I 
started with both joy and alarm, and my 
mother looked round with a smile, saying, 
“ Why, my little daughter is late to-day !” 
and that was all ! I knelt down by her 


24 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 

side, hid my face in her lap, had a hearty 
cry, and felt better. The girls soon came, 
and we had a happy afternoon. 

My mother said nothing about my frock 
for days after, — not even to ask how I had 
torn it. Eut her silent, forbearing kindness 
did more to make me careful in future than 
any punishment or scolding could have done. 
Yeti still tore my frocks occasionally ; and, 
even now, I sometimes tear my best dresses, 
and expect to tear them, as long as I live. 

When, a year or two after my apple-tree 
adventure, I saw my sister Sophie cutting 
up my out-grown buff lawn for a bed- 
quilt, I begged a scrap containing that 
nicely-darned rent, which I had always 
thought the prettiest part of the frock, and 
laid it carefully away among my little treas- 
ures, where I kept it for many years, as 
“ a specimen of my mother’s fine needle- 
work,” I told others, but, in truth, as a 
reminder of her patience and goodness 
toward her careless and luckless child. 








' 







* in! p -wt 

























THE RAINBOW-PILGRIMAGE. 


One summer afternoon, when I was about 
eight years of age, I was standing at an 
eastern window, looking at a beautiful rain- 
bow, that, bending from the sky, seemed to 
be losing itself in a thick, swampy wood, 
about a quarter of a mile distant. We had 
just had a violent thunder-storm ; but now 
the dark heavens had cleared up, a fresh 
breeze was blowing from the south, the 
rose-bushes by the window were dashing 
rain- drops against the panes, the robins were 
singing merrily from the cherry-trees, and 
all was brighter and pleasanter than ever. 
It happened that no one was in the room 
with me, then, but my brother Eufus, who 
was just recovering from a severe illness, 
and who was sitting, propped up with pil- 
lows, in an easy-chair, looking out, with me, 
at the rainbow. 


26 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 

“ See, brother, ” I said, “it drops right 
down among the cedars, where we go in 
the spring to find winter-greens !” 

“Do you know, Grade/’ said my 
brother, with a very serious face, “ that if 
you should go to the end of the rainbow, you 
would find there purses filled with money, 
and great pots of gold and silver ? ” 

“Is it truly so ? ” I asked. 

“ Truly so,” answered my brother, with 
a smile. Now, I was a simple-hearted child, 
that believed everything that was told me, 
although I was again and again imposed 
upon ; so, without another word, I darted 
out of the door, and set forth toward the 
wood. My brother called after me as 
loudly as he was able, but I did not heed 
him. I cared nothing for the wet grass, 
which was sadly drabbling my clean frock ; 
on and on I ran ; I was so sure that I knew 
just where that rainbow ended. I remem- 
ber how glad and proud I was in my 
thoughts, and what fine presents I promised 
to all my friends, out of my great riches. 


THE RAINBOW-PILGRIMAGE. 


21 


Father should have a pair of new gcld- 
rimmed spectacles, and a silver tobacco-box. 
Grandmother should have a gold snuff-box, 
and silver knitting-needles. I would allow 
my mother two or three purses of money, 
hut would reserve the right to lay it out 
for her, in gayer dresses and caps than her 
grave taste would allow her to purchase. 
My eldest sister should have a white horse, 
with the longest possible tail, and a crim- 
son side-saddle, with a silver stirrup. To 
my sister Carrie and myself I promised 
rings, necklaces, breast-pins, silk dresses 
and false curls, in great abundance. My 
elder brothers should have watches, guns, 
silver fish-hooks, and each a scarlet soldiei- 
coat, and a pair of green velvet pantaloons. 
For Albert, the youngest, I would buy a 
rocking-horse, that should whinny when he 
should mount it, as his cuckoo had sung 
when squeezed. Carlo should have a new 
red Morocco collar, hung with silver bells ; 
and I even resolved to furnish a silver ring 
for the nose of my pet pig, Nuggie 


28 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 

So thinking, and laying delightful plans, 
almost before I knew it, I had reached the 
cedar-grove, and the end of the rainbow 
was not there ! But I saw it shining down 
among the trees a little further off ; so on 
and on I struggled, through the thick bushes 
and over logs, till I came within the sound 
of a stream which ran through the swamp. 
Then I thought, “What if the rainbow 
should come down right into the middle of 
that deep, muddy brook! ” Ah! but I was 
frightened for my heavy pots of gold and 
silver, and my purses of money. How 
should I ever find them there ? and what a 
time I should have getting them out ! I 
reached the bank of the stream, and “ the 
end was not yet.” But I could see it a 
little way off, on the other side. I crossed 
the creek on a fallen tree, and still ran on, 
though my limbs seemed to give way, and 
my side ached with fatigue. The woods 
grew thicker and darker, the ground more 
wet and swampy, and I found, as many grown 
people had found before me, that there was 


THE RAINBOW-PILGRIMAGE. 


29 


rather hard travelling in a journey after 
riches. Suddenly, I met in my way a large 
porcupine, who made himself still larger 
when he saw me, as a cross cat raises its 
back, and makes tails at a dog. Fearing 
that he would shoot his sharp quills at me, 
and hit me all over, I ran from him as 
fast as my tired feet would carry me. In 
my fright and hurry, I forgot to keep my 
eye on the rainbow, as I had done before ; 
and when, at last, I remembered and looked 
for it, ’twas nowhere in sight ! I suppose 
because it had quite faded away. When I 
saw that it was indeed gone, I burst into 
tears ; for I had lost all my treasures, and 
had nothing to show for my pilgrimage but 
muddy feet, and a wet and torn frock. So 
I set out for home. But I soon found that 
my troubles had only begun ; I could not 
find my way ; I was lost. I could not tell 
which was east or west, north or south, but 
wandered about, here and there, crying and 
calling, though I knew that no one could hear 
me. All at once, I heard voices shouting 


30 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 

and hallooing ; but, instead of being rejoiced 
at this, I was frightened, fearing that the 
Indians were upon me ! I had never before 
been afraid of the Onondagas, who were a 
harmless, peaceful tribe ; but that week I 
had been listening to a novel called ‘ ‘ The 
Wept of Wish-ton-wish,” a story of the old 
Indian wars, which my mother had read 
aloud to my invalid brother. I remember 
how, one night, when I was thought abed 
and asleep, I was hid behind, or rather 
under, my brother’s great arm-chair, with 
ears open and mouth close shut, scarcely 
daring to breathe, till I was found out by 
my sobs for the death of poor Uncas. Now, 
I thought of the cruel deeds of those bloody 
Indians of the old time, till, getting more 
and more alarmed, I crawled under some 
bushes, by the side of a large log, and lay 
perfectly still. I was wet, cold, scared, — 
altogether very miserable indeed ; yet, 
when the voices came near, I did not start 
up and show myself. At last, I heard my 
own name called ; but I remembeied that 


THE RAINBOW-PILGRIMAGE. 


31 


Indians were very cunning, and thought 
they might have found it out some way ; so I 
did not answer. Then came a voice near 
me, that sounded like that of my eldest 
brother, who lived away from home, and 
whom I had not seen for many months; 
but I dared not believe the voice was his. 
Soon some one sprang up on to the log by 
which I lay, and stood there, calling. I 
could not see his face ; I could only see 
the tips of his toes, but by them I saw that 
he wore a nice pair of boots, and not moc- 
casins. Yet I remembered that some 
Indians dressed like white folks. I knew 
a young chief, who was quite a dandy ; 
who not only 

“ Got him a coat and breeches, 

And looked like a Christian man,” 

but actually wore a fine ruffled shirt, outside 
of all . So I still kept quiet, till I heard 
shouted over me a pet name, which this 
brother had given me. It was the funniest 
name in the world. I don’t know where 
He found it. I rather think he made it up 
himself, — “ Roxana Kusberger ! ” 


32 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 

I knew that no Indian knew of the name, 
as it was a little family secret ; so I sprang 
up, and caught my brother about the ankles. 
I hardly think that an Onondaga could have 
given a louder yell than he gave then ; and 
he jumped so that he fell off the log down 
by my side. But nobody was hurt ; and, 
after kissing me till he had kissed away all 
my tears, he hoisted me on to his shoulder, 
called my other brothers, who were hunt- 
ing in different directions, and we all set 
out for home. 

I had been gone nearly three hours, and 
had wandered a number of miles. Joseph’s 
coming, and asking for me, had first set 
them to inquiring and searching me out. 

When I went into the room where my 
brother Kufus sat, after I had had a bath 
and a change of dress, he said, “ Why, my 
poor little sister ! I did not mean to send 
you off on such a wild-goose chase to the 
end of the rainbow. I thought you would 
know I was only quizzing you.” 

I am afraid I made up a naughty face, as 


THE RAINBOW-PILGRIMAGE. 


33 


I answered, “ It was very cruel of you, 
and now I will not give you that fine rifle I 
was going to buy.” 

Then my eldest brother took me on his 
knee, and told me what the rainbow really 
was : that it was only painted air, and did 
not rest on the earth, so nobody could ever 
find the end ; and that God had set it in 
the cloud to remind him and us of his 
promise, never again to drown the world 
with a flood. 

“ 0, I think God's promise would be a 
beautiful name for the rainbow!” I said. 

“ Yes,” replied my mother, “ but it tells 
us something more than that he will not send 
great floods upon the earth, — it tells us of 
his beautiful love always bending over us 
from the skies. And I trust that when my 
little girl sets forth on a pilgrimage to find 
God's love, she will be led by the rainbow 
of his promise through all the dark places 
of this world, to 4 treasures laid up in 
heaven,' better, far better than silver or 
gold.” 


DENNIS O’BRIEN. 


Once, when I was quite a little girl, 1 
went to spend a few months in the family 
of my uncle, Colonel Grove, who lived in 
an old country-house, on a large farm, some 
twenty or thirty miles from us. Here I was 
always as happy and contented as in my own 
home, as everybody was kind to me, and I 
was allowed to have pretty much my own 
way. 

I found living at my uncle’s an Irish lad, 
a sort of boy of all work, named Dennis 
O’Brien. He was about sixteen, but rather 
short of his age, with a broad, ruddy face, 
bright blue eyes, and auburn hair. Though 
not handsome, he looked frank and intelli- 
gent, and almost everybody liked him at first 
sight. He had always been industrious, — 
had earned enough money in Ireland to 
bring him to this country, — and he was now 






9 

















DENNIS O’BRIEN. 


35 


working very hard, and saving every penny, 
so as to be able to send for his widowed 
mother and young sister. Was he not a 
noble boy ? 

Dennis and I struck up a great friendship, 
at once. In the long winter evenings, when 
there was company in the parlor, I liked 
nothing better than to sit by the great kitchen 
fire, and listen to his stories of Ireland, — 
especially of the Irish fairies, or “little 
folk,” as he called them. But, though Den- 
nis talked a great deal at these times, he was 
never idle, but was always making axe- 
helves, hoe-handles, or pudding-sticks, — 
which he sold in the neighborhood, — or 
small cross-bows and arrows for me, as I was 
much given to shooting at the barn-yard 
fowls, who took it all in good part, as they 
were seldom hit. I have now a little bow, 
and two arrows, whittled out of a shingle by 
the great General Houston, but which, I am 
sorry to say, do not come up to those my 
Irish friend used to make for me. 

One evening, after- sitting quite still foi 


36 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 


some minutes, Dennis asked, in a humble 
way, if I would teach him to read. I was 
astonished ; a boy sixteen years old not 
know how to read ! But I ran for a 
spelling-book, and began at once to teach 
him. I never knew any one learn so easily 
and eagerly as he. I soon had him through 
a -b abs, but he stuck a while on “ Baker .' 7 
After that, all seemed smooth sailing, and 
we were in words of four and five syllables 
before we knew it. Ah, I was a proud girl 
about those days ! I had never been a re- 
markably good scholar myself; I could 
count up on my fingers, without the aid of 
my toes, all the times I had been at the 
head of the second class in spelling. Now 
I found out that teaching was the work for 
me — to sit with the spelling lesson before 
me, so that there was no danger of my mak- 
ing mistakes, and laugh or look severe at 
the blunders of my pupil. I began to put 
on the airs of a school-ma’am, and begged a 
little old penknife of my aunt, with which I 
was always whittling hen’s quills into tooth- 


DENNIS O’BRIEN. 


37 


picks, and calling them pens; and if my 
pupil had been a little smaller, I don’t know 
but I should have flourished a switch about 
his ears. He was so provokingly good, he 
never would have given me any occasion to 
use it ; as it was, he scarcely gave me 
chances of reproving him enough to keep 
up my dignity. 

When Dennis went from spelling to read- 
ing, I gave him, as a “reward of merit,” 
a nice “ New England Primer.” I first set 
him to learning the verses beginning 

“ In Adam’s fall 
We sinned all.” 

“You know about Adam’s fall, don’t 
you, Dennis ? ” I said, very solemnly. 

“ Och, yes, Miss,” he answered; “he 
fell from an apple-tree, in the Garden of 
Aden, — did n’t he ? ” 

“ 0 Dennis,” said I, “I ’m afraid your 
folks are heathens.” 

But Dennis got his lesson very well, only 
he would always say, 


38 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 


“ Goliah's beauteous wife 
Made David seek bis life,” 

when the good little book says it was 
Uriah's wife that did the mischief. 

“Faith,” he would say, “and did n’t 
David go out to slay Goliah with a sling, 
and so sake his life ? ” 

“ But you don’t suppose that little David 
would want to marry a big giant’s wife — 
you stupid fellow ! ” 

When Colonel Grove heard what I had 
been doing, he praised me very much ; and 
when he found how anxious Dennis was to 
learn, he bought him books, and sent him 
to the district school. I was willing to let 
him go ; for, to tell the truth, I was getting 
rather tired of teaching ; besides, I some- 
times suspected Dennis of slyly making fun 
of me ; he certainly did not stand in much 
awe of his school-ma’am. 

After school, Dennis used often to draw 
me on a large sled to the top of a steep hill, 
near the house, then sit down in front of me 
to steer with his feet, and down we would 


DENNIS O’BRIEN. 


39 


go, like a flash ! Ah, how I enjoyed the 
sport ! One very cold evening, he took me 
out, wrapped in a warm cloak of my aunt’s, 
and fearing that my feet would be cold, he 
drew this over them, and tied it down with 
his handkerchief. We were hardly started 
on the first course, before he happened to 
tip us over, and I began to roll down the 
hill. Dennis called to me to stop ; but 
how could I stop, bagged up as I was ? I 
rolled on, faster and faster, and did not 
pause till I was half across the pond, at the 
bottom of the hill. 

My uncle had many maple -trees in his 
wood, from which he made sugar every 
spring. The place where this agreeable 
work was done was called “ the sugar- 
camp ; ” there were great iron kettles, set 
upon large stones, for boiling down the sap, 
and bright fires kept burning under them ; 
there was a shanty built of green hemlock 
ooughs, quite nice and comfortable. Alto 
gether, this sugar- camp was a very pleasant 
place. My aunt, her daughter and I, visited 
5 


4:0 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 

it daily, and watched my cousin and Dennis 
at their work, which, though really hard, 
seemed to me to be half play. 

One night Dennis happened to be all 
alone in the camp. We had just been 
“ sugaring- off,” and a dozen pans, filled with 
the nice, soft sugar, were standing in the 
shanty. My uncle had given Dennis all 
that he could make after that day ; and, as 
you may suppose, the lad was very happy 
and proud. 

Near midnight, he took his buckets, and 
went to some trees, at a distance, for more 
sap ; and when he came back, he found a 
number of young men and boys in the 
shanty, making free with the sugar. He 
set down his buckets, and boldly shouted 
out, “ This way, Colonel Grove ! this way, 
Master Harry ! Here are thaves staling 
your sugar.' ’ 

In a minute, the cowardly fellows scat- 
tered and ran, crackling through the brush- 
wood, and tumbling over one another in 


DENNIS O’BRIEN. 


41 


their fright, leaving Dennis to laugh at his 
own wit. 

How kind was Dennis always ! I remem- 
ber that this spring, when he was ploughing, 
he would let me sit on the little round of 
timber before him, with my feet on the 
plough, and sometimes even let me hold the 
reins. I don’t suppose it would look very 
proper in me to indulge myself in that way 
now ; but, to this day, I cannot think of 
any kind of riding half so pleasant. 

I soon had an opportunity to repay Den- 
nis for some of his kindness. One day, I 
was sent to carry him his dinner to a distant 
field, where he was ploughing with one 
horse, between the rows of corn. I found 
him unhitching his plough to come home. 
He said the little boy who had been riding 
the horse had been sent for by his mother, 
and he must give up for the day, though 
the corn needed ploughing sadly. “ Stop, 
Dennis ! ” I said ; “ I ’ll ride horse for this 
afternoon.” He laughed at me at first, but 
after a while agreed to let me try. I did 


42 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 

my best, and we got along famously 
Though I went home at night dusty, tired, 
and sunburned, I felt that I had done my 
duty, and earned my supper of bread and 
milk. 

After this visit, I did not see any more 
of Dennis, but I heard that at the end of the 
very next year he was able to send enough 
money to Ireland to bring over his mother 
and sister. He hired a little place for them 
in the country, which he afterwards bought. 
Though he still worked very hard through 
spring, summer, and fall, he gave every 
spare moment he could get to his books, 
and every winter attended school. At last, 
he had a fine education, and commenced the 
study of the law. Soon after he began to 
practise, he moved out West, and I heard no 
more of him. 

Not many months ago, as I was crossing 
the Alleghany Mountains, a friend in the 
cars introduced a fine-looking gentleman to 
me as “ Judge O’Brien, of Iowa.” The 
stranger smiled as though he knew me very 


DENNIS O’BRIEN. 


43 


well, and I thought I had seen his pleasant 
face before ; but I could not tell when or 
where. There was a man sitting near us, 
holding a little model of a patent plough in 
his hand. This Judge O’Brien took for a 
moment, and pointing to the little round of 
wood between the handles, said, “When I 
was a farmer-boy, there was a little black- 
eyed gypsy of a child, who used to sit be- 
fore me, on this part of the plough, and ride 
by the hour.” 

Then I knew him; but I only said, — 
“ What a sad romp she must have been ! ” 
We just then began to go down an in- 
clined plane, very swiftly ; and the judge 
said, with a sly smile, — 

“ This is very fast riding ; but don’t you 
think it is pleasanter to slide down a steep 
hill, on a sled, in the winter time ? ” 

“ Yes, Dennis,” I answered, laughing, 
“ if you don’t let some awkward fellow tie 
you up, tip you over, and dump you down 
hill, like a bag of potatoes ! ” 

After that, we had a fong, lively talk 


44 RECOLLECTIONS OP MY CHILDHOOD. 

about old times ; and then my friend told 
me of his success in the West ; how he had 
made quite a fortune, had been appointed 
judge, and had married “the best wife in 
the world/ ’ 

“I thank God,” he said, “for bringing 
me to America, and giving me such 
friends.” 

But Dennis O’Brien would never have 
had such friends, if he had not himself been 
so good, so faithful, and industrious. 


TOM SHELBY’S VISIT TO THE COUNTBY. 


Near the home of my early childhood, 
there lived a plain but wealthy farmer, by 
the name of Austin. He was a pleasant, 
intelligent man, and his wife was an excel- 
lent woman. They had a fine family of 
children, — from Ann, about sixteen, down 
to Johnny, a bright little rogue of six. 
But the pleasantest and cleverest of all was 
Frank, the oldest son — a happy, handsome, 
hearty, funny fellow, whom everybody liked, 
although he was rather mischievous, and 
fond of playing off little tricks. More was 
pardoned to him than to any one else, be- 
cause he was never ill-natured, even when 
he seemed most wild and lawless. 

Mr. Austin had a sister married to a rich 
merchant of the city of Albany, Mr. Shelby, 
who had a son about the age of Frank, a good 
enough boy at heart, but rather wild in hia 


46 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 

ways, and full of foolish, fine -gentleman 
notions. One spring, when Frank was about 
thirteen, he made a short visit to the city, 
and when he tame home, brought his cousin 
with him to spend the summer and fall. It 
was whispered about the neighborhood that 
Master Tom was sent into the country 
because “ his folks could n’t manage him at 
home.” I do not know that this was the 
case ; but very likely the report was correct. 

I was very intimate with Hattie Austin, 
one of the dearest and prettiest playmates 
of my childhood, and happened to be 
making her a visit when the boys arrived. 
Frank leaped down the steps first, embraced 
his mother heartily, and hugged all the 
children. Master Tom Shelby descended 
with slow dignity. He was dressed in a 
suit of fine blue broadcloth — the panta- 
loons tightly fitting, and strapped down 
under a pair of stylish, narrow-toed, high- 
heeled boots. His delicate hands were en- 
cased in dark kid gloves, and very much on 
one side of his head he wore a black velvet 


tom shelby’s visit to the country. 47 


cap, with a long dangling tassel. His hair 
was long and straight ; — by the way, 
Frank could afterwards vex him very much 
by telling that it curled naturally in Albany, 
but that somehow it straightened out more 
and more, the further he travelled from 
French hair-dressers. I remember Tom 
so plainly because he was the first dandy I 
ever saw. 

The first thing he did was to brush the 
dust from his polished boots with his cam- 
bric handkerchief ; then, looking up to the 
driver, he drawled out, “Boy, will you 
hand me down my dressing-case ? ” 

“Yes, grandfather,” answered the good 
nature d driver, taking off that elegant arti 
cle, and the other baggage. 

That afternoon, a number of the boys and 
girls of the neighborhood came to welcome 
Frank home, and to have a peep at the 
young stranger. I never shall forget the 
airs that fellow gave himself. He walked 
about the yard where we were at play, for 
all the world, as a fine peacock struts among 


48 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 

a crowd of pullets, ducks, and young 
roosters. How scornfully he eyed our 
homely clothes, and refused to join in our 
merry game of “ tag,” saying it was too 
rude and childish ! Some of us took off our 
stockings and shoes, to run the faster, and 
he looked down at our bare feet with as 
much horror as though they had been hoofs 
or claws. But he soon found out, as some 
great people had done before him, that it 
was tiresome work to be grand. We let 
him alone, and he soon came down from his 
stilts. He began to talk about Albany * 
“ We do this,” and “We have that, in Al- 
bany ; ” everything was handsomer and 
finer there than in the country. 

“ Dreadful big of his Albany ! ” said little 
Johnny. I had read in my copy-book, that 
“ God made the country, and man made the 
town,” and I told him so, right to his face, 
and said I did n't think men had better set 
up to do things better than God. 

“I don't know about that,” he said; 
"but I do know that we city people put up 


TOM SHELBY’ b' VISIT TO THE COUNTRY. 49 


handsomer buildings than you country people 
ever dreamed of. My father, now, lives in 
a great brass house, with a brick knocker 
on it!” 

What a laugh we had at his blunder ! 

In the morning, we all went to take a 
stroll in the woods. On the way, Tom 
amused himself, and, I must confess, us 
also, by telling of the tricks that, before he 
left home, he had played off on Frank, who, 
he said, was “ as green as that meadow,” 
pointing to a wheat-field. He had made 
his poor visitor drink the water from his 
finger-glass, for lemonade ; had sent him to 
the Female Academy, telling him it was the 
Capitol ; and to an undertaker’s to buy a 
new trunk ; and one evening he sent him 
home on the full run, by pointing to a watch- 
man, and telling him that after one appeared 
m the streets all strange boys were liable 
to be dragged off to the watch-house. 
Frank laughed good-humoredly while Tom 
was relating these cunning exploits ; but 
shook his head once in a while, as much as 


50 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 

to say, “ Wait a bit, my lad, and I ’ll pay 
you!” 

As we were passing through a cow 
pasture, on the edge of the wood, we came 
upon a flock of geese, with a host of goslings, 
and a fierce old gander flew at us, hissing 
like a serpent. Tom started back, and 
called out, “ Why, Frank, what is the mat- 
ter with that great white goose, that it hisses 
so?” 

“ It does behave strangely,” said Frank, 
quite soberly ; “ what can ail it 1 Can it 
be that it has gone mad ? ” 

In a moment Tom took to his heels, and 
did not stop till he reached the wood, rods 
away. While we were screaming with 
laughter, Frank called out, “ Stop, Tom! 
stop! — it’s only a gander; you ’re the 
goose yourself! ” 

In the afternoon, Tom brought out his 
fishing-tackle, — his nice-jointed rods, his 
delicate lines, and his flies, — and invited 
Frank to go trouting with him. Though he 
talked large, as usual, Frank saw at once 


TOM SHELBY’S VISIT TO THE COUNTRY. 51 


that he knew little or nothing of that sort 
of fishing. So he started out with him, 
stopped at the first piece of water they came 
across, put his finger on his lip in token of 
silence, then lazily flung himself on the 
grass under a willow, to watch the sport. 
The little sheet of water was nothing but a 
frog-pond, weedy and muddy, where fish 
had never made their appearance. Tom 
had heard that trout were exceedingly shy, 
and went very softly to work, never 
speaking above a whisper to Frank. After 
about an hour, he concluded that flies were 
not inviting bait, and, by Frank's advice, 
used worms instead. 

“ Do they bite now ? ” whispered Frank, 
yawning, for he had taken a nice nap in the 
shade of the willow. 

“No,” said Tom, “but they begin to 
nibble ; ” and in a minute after he cried, 
joyfully, “ Now I have one ! Come, Frank, 
and help me out with it. I think it must be 
a salmon- trout.” 

But before Frank reached him, he pulled 


52 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD 

up a great mud-turtle, which he had hooked 
by the leg. Frank rolled on the ground 
with laughter, and Tom did not soon hear 
the last of his fine “ salmon-trout.” 

The next day, however, Frank took his 
cousin to a real trout stream, some miles 
distant, and taught him how to capture that 
most shy and delicious fish. 

Not long after this, Tom proposed a hunt. 
Now, Frank was a good shot, but Tom knew 
about as much of hunting as he had known 
of trouting. Yet you would have supposed, 
from his way of talking, that he was a per- 
fect Nimrod — a “mighty hunter.” He 
had an elegant little fowling-piece, and all 
the accoutrements, even to a hunting-jacket 
of the latest English fashion. But, alas ! his 
fine outfit brought him neither skill nor 
luck ; he popped away incessantly, and, as 
the boys say, “ killed nothing but powder.” 
At last, Frank, who had separated from him, 
and had nearly filled his game-bag with 
squirrels and partridges, took pity on the 
poor fellow. He happened, himself, to have 


tom shelby's visit to the country 53 


shot an old owl, and, climbing a tree, he 
fixed this on a large limb, so that it looked 
very lifelike and natural. Then, going for 
Tom, he led him softly within sight of the 
game, telling him that there was a big bird 
of some sort, he might have for the shooting. 
Thinking that a big bird would require a 
big charge, Tom put in a double quantity 
of powder and shot, and the consequence 
was, that he was kicked clean over — boys 
will understand how. But he brought down 
the owl, and never would believe but that 
he had the first shot at him. 

A few days after this, Mr. Austin said to 
his young guest, “ I ’ve a letter from your 
father, my boy, and he tells me to set you 
to work, and get some of the nonsense out 
of you. I don’t want to put you to hard 
labor; you may do as you please; but 
Frank, here, has been fooling about long 
enough, — he must go to work.” 

Tom turned up his aristocratic nose at 
the thought of his working on the farm ; 
and when he saw Frank shoulder his hoe, 

7 


54 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 

and go cheerfully over the hill to the corn- 
field, he wondered at and pitied him. 

But Tom had somehow become attached 
to his good-natured playmate ; and, as he 
idled away hour after hour of the pleasant 
morning, through the house and about the 
yard, he found himself very lonely and 
stupid. 

By the middle of the afternoon of the 
second day, he felt that he really could not 
stand it any longer ; so paid a visit to the 
corn-field, “just to see how they got along,” 
he said. After watching his cousin a while, 
he went to Mr. Austin, and asked for a 
hoe, — “just to help Frank a little.” His 
uncle gave him one, with a smile, telling 
him to he careful of his fine clothes. 
Though Tom found that this work was even 
harder than fishing for trout in a frog-pond, 
— though it made his back ache, and almost 
blistered his hands, — yet he liked it, and 
hoed his row bravely. The next morning, 
after an early breakfast, he drew on an old 
pair of boots, rolled up his pantaloons. 


TOM SHELBY'S VISIT TO THE COUNTRY. 55 


shouldered his hoe, and set out with the 
other workmen, feeling very stout and im- 
portant. In the course of the week, he 
found in his room a regular farmer’s suit of 
clothes, — more easy than elegant, — of 
strong, but cool material. These he put on 
with much pleasure ; indeed, it was soon 
hard to persuade him to dress himself in 
broadcloth, even to go to church. He said 
that, in tow jacket and corduroy trousers, a 
man had room, — a man could do as he 
pleased, — and that a good straw hat was 
the thing for a man, after all. 

Mr. Austin gave his nephew a small piece 
of land in the corn-field, for a melon-patch. 
Tom planted and cultivated it, and was very 
proud of the thriving condition of his water- 
melons and canteleups. It happened that a 
neighboring farmer had a fine melon-patch 
in the very next field. This Mr. Johnson 
was a cross, disobliging man, on whom the 
boys loved to play little mischievous tricks, 
— so I suppose Tom did not think he was 
proposing anything wicked, when he said 


56 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 

to his cousin, one evening in September 
44 Frank, let ’s go, to-night, and hook old 
Johnson's water-melons ! ” 

44 Do you mean steal them, Tom ? ” asked 
Frank. 

44 Why, yes ; if you ’ve a mind to call a 
little fun by such a bard name. I don’t see, 
for my part, what harm there could be in 
taking a few water-melons from such a stingy 
old fellow.” 

Frank, with all his wildness, had never 
been guilty of a mean or a dishonest act ; 
yet now, after thinking a moment, he agreed 
to go with his cousin, but persuaded him to 
wait till the moon was down, and it was 
quite dark. Then, by a roundabout way 
through the woods, he led Tom to his own 
melon-patch, where he told him to hurry and 
fill the basket, while he kept watch at a 
little distance. He afterwards said that he 
never came so near dying with silent laugh- 
ter, as he did when he saw Tom creeping 
softly about on all fours, stealing his own 
melons, thinking that they were Mr. John 


TOM SHELBY’S VISIT TO THE COUNTRY. 57 


sen’s ! At last, hearing some noise near, — 
a cow, or a colt, perhaps, — he shouted, 
“ Run, Tom ! run ! Look out for old John- 
son ! ” — and started for home, at full speed. 
Tom followed fast, breathing hard, and 
dropping a melon or two, in his fright. But 
he reached the house with three fine ones, 
of which he ate enough to make him so ill 
that he was obliged to lie abed and take 
medicine the next forenoon. At night, 
when he was much better, Frank confessed 
the trick he had played off ; and, I assure 
you, the poor fellow made up a worse 
face at the story than he had at the 
bitter dose of the morning. Yet he did not 
keep anger long, and he never forgot the 
hard lesson he had learned, — never at- 
tempted to steal again, even from himself. 

Tom Shelby was more and more liked, 
the longer he stayed with the Austins ; and 
in little more than half a year he grew to 
be a sensible, industrious, agreeable lad 
So much did he become attached to his 
cousin, that he could not be persuaded to 


58 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 

return home without him ; and it was finally 
agreed that Frank should be sent to one of 
the excellent schools in Albany, and that 
the two friends, if they remained good boys, 
should be educated together. 

I remember the day they left us. They 
were to go by stage some twenty miles, to 
the town of S -. It was a keen morn- 

ing in November, yet these two hardy, 
ruddy-cheeked boys chose to ride outside, 
with the driver. The night before, they had 
gone all about the neighborhood, to bid 
their friends good-by ; and everybody, even 
old Johnson, was sorry to see the merry lads 
go. Tom had laid out a generous portion 
of his pocket-money in parting gifts, — 
from a “ Pilgrim’s Progress,” in large type, 
for grandmother Austin, to a bag of painted 
marbles for little Johnny. But to Hattie, 
his favorite, he made half a dozen handsome 
presents, for her “ to remember cousin Tom 
by,” he said. If he could have known how 
she cried over them, when he was gone, he 


TOM SHELBY’S VISIT TO THE COUNTRY. 59 


would have been both glad and sorry, I 
think. 

After the boys had taken a hearty leave 
of us all, and clambered to their seats, 
while the driver was gathering up the reins, 
Tom called out, “ If any of you happen to 
meet a slender, long-haired, milky-faced 
young dandy, from Albany, who was about 
here for a while last spring, just bid him 
good-by for me, for I never shall see him 
again.” 


THE TWO LADIES FROM THu CITY. 

\ 

It was near Christmas time, and Frank 
Austin was at home for the holidays, hav- 
ing with him his cousin, Tom Shelby. The 
friends, now nearly sixteen, were as full of 
merriment, as fond of laughter, and all 
sorts of innocent fun, as ever. Ah ! such 
wild times as we all had together, for more 
than one of my brothers might be counter 
on, at any time, for any kind of a frolic. 

It happened that Mr. and Mrs. Austin 

went to the town of S , for a day or 

two, on business, they said, which we 
suspected meant little else than the 
purchase of Christmas gifts. They left 
Ann, the eldest daughter, as housekeeper. 
By the way, I have scarcely mentioned 
Ann. She was a kind-hearted, clever 
girl, but was a little spoiled by reading 
novels, and by some grand ideas of style 
and fashion, which nobody knew how she 


THE TWO LADIES FROM THE CITY. 61 


came by. For instance, she disliked her 
plain name, and always wanted to be called 
Antoinette. Her brothers called her by 
that romantic name, when they wanted 
buttons sewed on, or hats lined ; if they 
wished to see her vexed, they called her 
Ann ; but they must make up their minds to 
be chased out of the house with the broom- 
stick, if they called her “ Nanny .” She 
really loved hard work, and yet she was 
ashamed to be caught at it. Once, I remem- 
ber, in house -cleaning time, while she was 
washing the kitchen-floor, in an old gown, 
with her sleeves rolled up, and no stockings 
on her feet, the minister called. No one 
heard his knock, and he walked through the 
sitting-room, into the kitchen, where Ann 
was making a great splashing with her mop. 
When she caught sight of that solemn man, 
she screamed, dropped her mop, and jumped 
through an open window, right into the 
rain-water trough. 

But Ann was the pleasantest sort of a 
housekeeper while her mother was gone, 


62 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 

and we had things quite to our liking. 1 
say we, for I was visiting Hattie that week. 
To be sure, there was old grandmother Aus- 
tin, always sitting in the warmest chimney- 
corner ; but she was amiable, and so deaf 
and sleepy that she did not interfere with 
us much. 

One afternoon, at supper, Ann talked 
a good deal with Frank and Tom about two 
young ladies from Albany, Miss Flagg, and 
Miss Dillingham, who were visiting some 
friends in the village. Ann had made an 
early call on them, but did not see them, 
— they were not at home ; and now she was 
fretting because the call had not been 
returned. 

After supper, I noticed Frank and Tom 
whispering together, and presently they 
said they were going to our house, to see 
my brothers for a little while ; and, putting 
on their caps, they went off, running mer- 
rily down the road, and chasing each other 
with snow-balls. 

In the course of an hour, a sleigh came 


THE TWO LADIES FROM THE CITY. 63 


jingling up to the house ; two ladies got 
out, came to the door, and knocked, rather 
loudly. Mrs. Austin’s only hired girl was 
out for the evening ; Hattie and I were too 
bashful to go to the door ; so Ann was 
obliged to open it herself. “ Is Miss 
Antoinette Austin at home ?” asked one of 
the ladies, in a little, mincing voice. 4 ‘Yes, 
ma’am,” answered' Ann. “Well, then, 
my good girl,” said the other lady, with a 
toss of her head, “ will you inform her that 
Miss Flagg and Miss Dillingham have 
called?” “Why, I am Miss Antoinette 
Austin, myself.” 

“0,1 beg your pardon,” said Miss Dil- 
lingham, while she and her friend walked 
forward and took the chairs which Ann 
offered them ; hut they would not sit ver} 
near the fire, or the candle, and kept their 
black lace veils partly over their faces. 

“ Grandmother,” said Ann, “ these aie 
some ladies from the city, — Miss Flagg 
and Miss Dillingham.” 

“Who?” said the poor, deaf old lady 


64 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 

“ Miss Ragg and Miss Dinner-horn , did you 
say ? ” 

“No, grandmother,' ’ answered Ann, 
speaking loud in her ear, “ Miss Flagg and 
Miss Dillingham ! ” 

“ Yes, yes, I hear ; Miss Lagg and Miss 
Dinghammer .” 

The ladies laughed outright at this, and 
poor Ann grew very red in the face. But she 
sat down and began conversing with her 
visiters, about Albany. I don’t suppose that 
she knew it, but she talked very affectedly, 
indeed, in a little, fine voice, nobody ever 
heard her use before. She spoke of the 
city as though she knew all about it, and 
once in a while she brought out a French 
word, but pronounced it so queerly that 
Miss Flagg made her repeat it, and, even 
then, did n’t seem to understand it. Once 
she asked, “Do you know my aunt, Mrs. 
Mayor Shelby ? ” 

“No,” answered Miss Dillingham, “ but 
I know Mrs. Alderman Shelton.” 

Hattie and I sat on a settee, near the 


THE TWO LADIES FROM THE CITY. 65 


fire, watching the grand visiters. “ An’t 
it funny,” whispered Hattie, “ that such 
little voices come out of such great 
mouths ! ” 

“ Yes,” I answered, “ and haven’t they 
big feet, for such fine ladies ! ” 

I think that Miss Flaggheard me, for she 
drew her feet under her cloak. Then I 
noticed that both her cloak and bonnet were 
like those my eldest sister wore, and that 
Miss Dillingham’s were a good deal like my 
mother’s. I felt proud to know that my 
mother and sister were in the fashion. 

After a rather short call, the ladies rose, 
made each a great courtesy, and took 
leave. As we watched them from the win- 
dow, getting into the sleigh, I thought the 
boy that drove looked strangely like my 
brother Will. 

In about half an hour, the boys came 
home. Hardly were they in the house 
before Ann cried out, “ 0, you don’t 
know what you have missed ! Miss Flagg 
and Miss Dillingham have been here, and 


66 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 

oh, such elegant, genteel young ladies as 
they are ! I never was so provoked in my 
life, for Susan was gone, and I was obliged 
to be waiter myself ; they actually took me 
for a servant-girl. But you should have 
seen them ! — such airs ! Just proud and 
haughty enough, I think.' ' 

“ Well, I say," spoke up old Mrs. Aus- 
tin, “that they are two pert, affected hus 
sies, with no manners at all." 

“ Why, grandmother," said Ann, “you 
have always lived in the country, and don't 
exactly know what is genteel." 

“ I know," said Mrs. Austin, raising her 
voice, “ that it 's not the sign of a lady to 
grip a body’s hand as they did ; and no real 
lady or gentleman would giggle out loud at 
a deaf old woman’s mistake." 

“ You are very right, grandmother," said 
Frank, “ and Tom and I beg pardon for our 
rudeness." 

“ What do you mean ? " asked Ann. 

“Why, Nanny," said Frank, mimicking 


THE TWO LADIES FROM THE CITY. 67 


her, “ do you know my aunt, Mrs. Mayor 
Shelby ?” 

“ You good-for-nothing, hateful fellows ! 
how dare you play off such a trick on me?” 
said Ann, laughing and crying all at once, 
while we set up a perfect shout. But the 
boys soon soothed her, by promising not to 
tell her father, who loved dearly to tease 
her about any such foolish little thing. I 
saw how it was : the hoys had been dressed 
at our house, had come in our sleigh to 
make their visit ; and I was not sure that 
my mother and sister were in the fashion, 
after all. But I enjoyed the joke, rather 
more than Ann, I think. Yet she profited 
by it, eertainly, for she was never known 
to talk in an affected or boasting way again. 
The real ladies, from the city, came to see 
her, a day or two after. They were nice, 
quiet girls, with frank, easy manners, and 
liked Ann so well, on acquaintance, that they 
persuaded her to spend some time with 
them the next winter, when she visited her 
aunt, in Albany. Then she saw city-life 


68 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 

without having her head turned by its 
grandeur, but came home loving the coun- 
try, — the dear, free, fresh, healthful coun- 
try, — better than ever. 

The spring after that merry Christmas- 
time, we moved from our old home, further 
west, and saw no more and heard very lit 
tie of the Austins. I parted from Hattie 
with great sorrow. We solemnly agreed to 
love each other dearly, for ever and ever ; 
we exchanged locks of hair, and she prom- 
ised to take care of the cat I left behind 
me. 

A year or two since, I received a call 
from a “ Dr. Austin,” whom I recognized, 
at once, as my old friend Frank. I was 
glad to see that he was as healthy and 
hearty, as fond of laughter and fun, as ever. 
He brought me a short letter from his sister 
Ann, who wrote that they still lived in the 
old place ; that her mother had been dead 
three or four years, and that Hattie was 
married, and living near ; that was all the 
news she told me. “ Why, Frank,” I said, 


THE TWO LADIES FROM THE CITY. 69 


“ Ann does not tell me the name of Hattie's 
husband.” 

“ Ah, haven’t you heard ?” he replied, 
“ it ’s cousin Tom Shelby. His father 
couldn’t make a merchant, a lawyer, a min- 
ister, or a doctor, out of him ; he would be 
nothing but a farmer. So he bought old 
Johnson’s place, married our Hattie, and 
settled down to farming, as happy as a 
king.” 

“0, I am very glad to hear it ! ” I said. 
“ But how is this, Frank! I see, by your sis- 
ter’s letter, that she does not write her 
name Antoinette any more.” 

“ Why, no,” he answered ; “ she calls 
herself ‘ plain Ann ,’ now ; but no one else 
calls her so, for, I assure you, my sister is a 
very pretty woman ; and she is better than 
pretty, she is good ; ^you know she always 
was, — but now more than ever, for, since 
mother died, she has been like a mother to 
us all.” 


STORY OF A CHRISTMAS SLEIGH-RIDE. 


“ ’T was the night before Christmas/' 
about — 0, 1 don’t like to count up how 
many years ago ! I am afraid, if I do, I 
shall feel too old to play “ Blind-man’s 
Buff,” and “ Hunt the Slipper,” or to ride 
in on a load of hay, the next time I get a 
chance ; but I know that it was on the 
Christmas time following my ninth birth- 
day that I was invited to take that mem- 
orable sleigh-ride. Now I am going to 
start off, not on the ride, but away 
from it for a while, to tell you how it all 
came about. 

My brother Charles and I were always 
great cronies, the very best of friends 
and comrades. He was several years 
older than I, but that fact did not seem 
to set him up ; nor did he pride him- 
self overmuch on being a boy, instead 


A CHRISTMAS SLEIGH-RIDE. 


71 


of a girl, though of course he was duly 
grateful, especially in the nutting or skat- 
ing season, on hunting or training days, 
and in all sloppy and muddy times ; but 
he never said he pitied me for being what 
I was, not even when the dressmaker 
was fitting and trying on, and sticking 
pins in me, to make me stand still, — not 
even when I came home from school in 
the rain, with my wet skirts clinging and 
flapping around me, — not even when I 
had to run and hide to escape the sight 
of the frantic last fluttering of headless 
chickens and turkeys, immolated for 
Thanksgiving and Christmas ; though he 
was brave enough to see a big ox knocked 
in the head with an axe, and stand and 
whistle with his hands in his pockets all 
the while ! 

He had to stoop to lift me, but his 
heart was on a level with mine always. 
He sympathized with me in my little 
joys and sorrows, and as often as possible 
shared with me his pursuits and amuse- 


72 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 


ments. He was very ingenious, and often 
manufactured articles of furniture for 
my playhouse, and little wagons and sleds 
for the dog to draw. At last, he set 
about a harder and more important task, 
the construction of a light sleigh, or “ cut- 
ter/ ' for his own use. In an outhouse 
there was a carpenter’s bench, with the 
necessary tools, and there he worked dur- 
ing the fall, at odd times, before and after 
school, on his "wonderful one-horse sleigh ” 
He was assisted occasionally by “ the 
hired man,” Orin, — a tall, fine-looking 
young fellow, for whom I had a special 
liking. I wonder where he is now ! 

I watched the miracle of that sleigh’s 
creation, from the bending of the lithe 
saplings that formed the “ runners,” to the 
driving of the last nail in the box, with 
intense, unflagging interest. I was al- 
lowed, girl though I was, to have my 
say on many a point in discussion, and 
my opinion was gravely asked and gra- 
ciously given in regard to everything in 


A CHRISTMAS SLEIGH-RIDE. 


73 


the decorative way. So I can say of 
this work, as the Latin poet makes his 
hero affirm of greater undertakings, “All 
of which I saw, and a part of which I 
was.” 

Very little of ornamentation was at- 
tempted ; it was, I suppose, but a prim- 
itive, rude little vehicle, when finished ; 
but it was light, and ran smoothly.- I 
considered it, on the whole, a triumph 
of domestic art, and I suspect that even 
my modest brother was not wholly with- 
out pride in his own handicraft. 

The tiny box could only properly hold 
two persons, but the seat was movable, 
could be slid forward for the driver, leav- 
ing room for two or three little folks to 
be packed in behind. 

The first drive taken was on the frozen 
mill-pond. Up and down, round and 
round, we drove in a jingle and a flash 
and a frolic, — Charles, the triumphant, 
driving ; and cuddled down under the 
buffalo-robe, my sister and I, with our 


74 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 

black-eyed youngest brother. He is sit- 
ting near me now, the same little brother, 
with the same black eyes, and the same 
merry laugh, — but as I look at him I 
see that he has been somewhere and got 
a dark, bushy beard ; and on his knee he 
is holding — of all things in the world ! — 
a baby, and it is his baby. 

But he was “ the baby ” then, and cried 
a little when the frost bit his ears, but 
winked hard to stop the tears, and said it 
was the snow-flakes melting in his eyes ! 

But I did not mind the biting cold or 
the flying snow. Those jolly sleigh-bells 
seemed to keep me warm. I loved to 
hear the “ crank, crank,” of the pony’s 
hoofs on that sparkling crystalline pave- 
ment, which it seemed to me must be 
like the streets of the New Jerusalem; 
and then I enjoyed thinking how we 
were astonishing the frogs and fishes in 
their winter quarters under the ice. 

The next day it happened Charles had 
an errand to do for oar father at a farm- 


A CHRISTMAS SLEIGH-RIDE. 


75 


house four or five miles away, over the 
hills, and he was going in his own little 
sleigh, and he invited me to go with him, 
and nobody else was to go except my 
doll Jenny ! 

Early in the evening my good brother 
drove up to the door in dashing style. 
In addition to our own stock of sleigh- 
bells, he had provided the pony with sev- 
eral strings borrowed from the neigh- 
bors, some of which were fastened on 
where bells never found themselves be- 
fore, so that the astonished Milly shone 
and jingled all over. She had, for this 
time at least, "more sound than sub- 
stance.” 

Cloaked, hooded, and mittened, I was 
“ dumped down ” into my place, on some 
nice straw, at the bottom of the box, 
covered with a warm buffalo-robe, and 
with a heated brick for my feet, — for the 
weather was exceedingly cold. 

Just before we drove off, my sister 
touched my sense of honor by saying, 


76 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 


“ Now, if it is late when you come home, 
and we are gone to bed, don’t peep into 
our stockings.” But my little brother 
made me laugh by calling out, “0 sis- 
ter, maybe you ’ll catch old Santa Claus 
at it ! ” 

It was a lovely moonlight night ; there 
was a deep snow, so deep that the 
drifts often covered the fences, and it 
was crusted and sparkling; the air was 
keen and still, and the bells rang out 
right merrily. I cannot tell you how 
grand and proud I felt, sitting in state 
there behind my driver, — as grand as 
Boadicea, queen of the ancient Britons, 
driving her war-car into battle ; as proud 
as the wicked Roman Princess Tullia, 
driving in her chariot to see her bad 
husband, Tarquinius Superbus, crowned 
king ; proud as Cleopatra, in her golden 
barge ; or as Queen Elizabeth, boxed up 
in her state coach, stiff with starch, whale- 
bone, brocade, grandeur, and propriety ; 
and I had an exultant, “ tickled ” feeling, 


A CHRISTMAS SLEIGH-RIDE. 


77 


which only Cinderella, bound for the 
Prince’s ball, in her fairy “ turn-out,” 
could have known. 

We drove through the valley, then up 
a long, long hill ; then through a piece of 
pine wood, looking dark and weird after 
the universal whiteness ; then up another 
hill, and paused on the top at a comfort- 
able little farm-house just by the road. 

We were made very welcome by our 
good friends, toasted before a great roar- 
ing fire, the like of which is never seen 
in these degenerate times, bounteously 
treated to doughnuts, cider, and apples, — 
great luscious, red-cheeked apples, the 
like of which don’t grow nowadays. 

At length, our errand done, we rose to 
leave. “ Don’t go yet, it ’s just in the 
edge of the evening,” said our hostess. 

“ Yes, but it ’s getting towards the 
other edge,” said my brother ; and I added, 
“I don’t think the pony likes staying 
out there all alone in the cold ; she ’s 
ringing all her bells for us.” 


78 KECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 


“0, I guess she likes the jingling; 
they ’re most as proud as other folks, 
these dumb critters be. What a sight 
of ’em she must have on ! Dear me, 
child, how you do grow ! You ’re most 
as tall as my Almiry. Who do you favor 
now?” 

“ They say I ’m like my father.” 

" Why, yes; jest his black eyes.” 

" No, ma’am ; my eyes are only gray.” 

"Well, come to look, so they be; but 
they have the look-out of his’n ; but 
there ’s a little something about the 
mouth like your mother. Come to think, 
did she make mince-pies for Christmas ? 
or did her Thanksgiving batch hold 
out ? ” 

“ 0, we had enough.” 

“ Du tell ! that ’s lucky. Your folks 
can’t be great pie-eaters. Take some 
doughnuts in your pockets, do now ! ” 

At last we were off again, dashing 
merrily down the hill, my brother sing- 
ing at the top of his voice, and the bells 


A CHRISTMAS SLEIGH-RIDE. 


79 


ringing like mad. How cosey and happy 
I felt, snuggled down under the buffalo- 
robe, hugging my dolly, saying nothing, 
but listening to those merry songs and to 
that blithe chorus of bells. I thought that 
the people in the houses along the road 
would surely think that a whole sleigh- 
ing party was going by, from the noise 
we made. I did not know how I could 
ever come down to one string of bells 
again, and I had a pity akin to contempt 
for some sleigh-riders whom we met, 
stealing meekly along with no bells at 
all. 

The lonely piece of road running 
through the wood was more drifted than 
elsewhere. It was up and down, up and 
down, like billows at sea. I did not mind 
the jolting, or, rather, I was very merry 
over it, laughing to myself and Jenny at 
the famous shaking and jouncing we were 
getting, when suddenly, as we rose out of 
a deep hollow, the back-board of the little 
sleigh gave way, and spilt me, dolly, and 


80 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 


the buffalo-robe out into the road ! It was 
some moments before I could get myself 
free from my wraps and gain my feet, and 
then it was to see my brother rods ahead 
of me still driving rapidly and singing at 
the top of his voice. I called and screamed 
after him with all my might ; but beside 
the noise of the bells and his own sing- 
ing, the muffler over his ears prevented 
his hearing me. He did not happen to 
look around, but drove on, all uncon- 
scious of his loss, deeper and deeper into 
the woods. Fainter and fainter grew the 
music of those treacherous bells, and I 
stood alone, far from any house, amid a 
waste of snow, — lost, abandoned ! 

I can’t say I did n’t cry a little over 
my sad plight, but I am very sure that I 
lost no time at that business. I knew 
that it would be dangerous for me to 
stand still waiting, in the intense cold. I 
remembered that just beyond the wood 
lived an old friend of the family, who 
would, I knew, if I could reach her house, 


A CHRISTMAS SLEIGH-RIDE. 


81 


care for me tenderly till my brother, dis- 
covering his loss, should return for me. 
So, tucking my doll under my arm, I 
drew the buffalo-robe about me and part- 
ly over my head, and trudged on quite 
bravely. 

But as I reached the gloomy shadows 
of the pines, I instinctively looked out 
for the red glare of the wolf’s eyes, and 
listened for his hungry snarl. I won- 
dered if, in case one should rush at me, 
I could keep him off a little while by 
throwing to him my dolly ; but how 
could I have the heart to do it ? Then 
a bright thought occurred to me, which 
greatly relieved my mind. I would, at 
sight of one, drop on my hands, and go- 
ing on all-fours, with the robe well drawn 
over me, I might pass for a small-sized 
buffalo, and, by doing my best at a bellow, 
could perhaps keep him at bay. Then I 
thought of Indians, and imagined one 
crouching, tomahawk in hand, behind 
every tree. But I hoped that by using 


82 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 


a little diplomacy, I could make my way 
with them, if th£y would only hear be- 
fore striking. I would politely address 
them in their own language, for I was 
so fortunate as to understand Indian. I 
would say, with a low courtesy, 8 ago? 
Na-put ne, na-put nunk f which, being in- 
terpreted, meaneth, “How do you do? 
Will you favor me with a mug of cider ? ” 
These terse phrases I believed to compre- 
hend the entire aboriginal lingo. 

But I began to grow weary, burdened 
as I was with my buffalo disguise, and I 
fancied I was getting drowsy. What if I 
should sink down and go to sleep, and 
never wake up again ? And what if my 
brother should miss me, and come back, 
and find me dead and cold and stiff, with 
the great tears frozen on my cheeks, and 
should carry me home, and take me in 
to my mother and say, “ I have brought 
home your youngest daughter, but she 
will never go sleigh-riding any more for- 
ever.’ * 


A CHRISTMAS SLEIGH-EIDE. 


83 


And I thought how the children would 
all cry in the morning, and not care to 
look in their stockings, and not eat their 
nuts and candies for ever so many days ; 
and I wondered what the scholars would 
say at our school, and if the master 
would n’t be sorry he punished me last 
week. I regretted that I had n’t made a 
will, for I was afraid there would be some 
trouble about dividing my things ; but I 
did hope that Polly Ellis would have my 
bead bag. Poor Polly, how she would 
mourn and refuse to be comforted ! I 
felt pretty sure that I should have a great 
funeral at the church, and I thought how 
the people would come up to look at me 
and say, “ How natural she looks ! just as 
though she was asleep.” I had no doubt 
but that my father would write something 
for the newspapers, to go among the 
u Dreadful Accidents ! ” telling how I was 
spilt out of the sleigh and frozen to death, 
with my name all printed out ! And 
when the spring came, he would have a 


84 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 


handsome white tombstone put up over 
my grave, telling what a good girl I was, 
— so much better than anybody ever sus- 
pected me of being when I was alive, — 
and a verse of Scripture too. 

I wondered if my brothers and sisters 
would miss me much in their play, and if 
they would take good care of Kitty and 
Carlo for my sake. 

Here my tears began to rain down hard- 
er than ever, and I cried aloud. The 
sleigh had been out of sight in the curv- 
ing road, and almost out of hearing, for 
some minutes; but just at this sorrowful 
crisis, when I quite broke down, I saw 
something dark coming swiftly up the 
road. I heard the bells ringing louder 
and louder; I heard, too, my brother’s 
voice, calling my name anxiously, almost 
wildly! I answered joyfully. Nearer 
and nearer he came, lashing poor Milly 
to the top of her speed ; and the next I 
knew I was in his arms, being hugged 
and kissed and questioned and comforted, 


A CHRISTMAS SLEIGH-RIDE. 85 


all together, in a way it is impossible 
to describe. He had spoken to me once 
or twice, he said, without turning his 
head, and, receiving no answer, he sup- 
posed I had fallen asleep. At last he had 
looked around to see that I was well cov- 
ered, and found me missing! He has 
since heard bullets whistle and shells 
scream in battle with less terror, I doubt 
not, than he felt then. He could not tell 
exactly how long I had been lost. He 
feared I would get bewildered and frozen, 
while trying to make my way to some 
shelter, besides suffering agonies from 
fear. 

Well, he put me into the sleigh again, 
and wrapped me up warmly, and sat 
down by me with one arm around me, 
and let Milly take her own way pretty 
much. 

We reached home safely. My odd 
adventure created a decided sensation in 
the domestic circle, and I went to bed, 
feeling myself a good deal of a heroine, 


86 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 


in spite of my having feared wolves and 
Indians where no such “ varmints ” were. 

I learned this bit of wisdom from my 
comical mishap, — that it is possible to 
have too much of a good thing, even of 
sleigh-bells. 


MY LITTLE GREEK. 


When I was a very little girl, I heard 
a great deal of talk about a war which 
the Greeks had been for some time carry- 
ing on against the Turks, for the inde- 
pendence of their beautiful country. I 
heard many stories told and read of the 
cruelty and barbarity of the Turks, and of 
the suffering and heroism of the Greeks. 
I heard of midnight attacks on quiet vil- 
lages, when all the houses were robbed 
and burned, the men who tried to defend 
their homes shot down without mercv, or 
hurled from high rocks into the sea, and 
the poor half-clad women and children 
driven away into the woods and moun- 
tains; — very much such stories as we 
have heard, during the last few years, 
of the sufferings of loyal people in the 
rebel States. 


88 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 


I of course understood very little about 
the great struggle, but I knew that my 
parents and brothers took sides with the 
Greeks, so I did, and hated the Turks 
with all my little might. I was a simple- 
hearted child, with a very small stock of 
useful knowledge in my mischief-loving 
brain. I had not even entered on the 
study of Peter Parley's charming little 
Geography. Dear old Peter Parley ! 
What a wonderful being he seemed to 
me a few years later, when I did study 
his Geography ! I thought him next to 
King Solomon in wisdom, if not in power 
and glory; and I cannot tell how sorry I 
was, and how dismayed, when, a year or 
two later still, I was told that he was n’t 
old at all, and was n’t lame, and did n’t 
sit always in a big arm-chair surrounded 
by happy boys and girls, telling stories 
all over the world, and was n’t Peter Par- 
ley at all, but only a Mr. Goodrich. 

It gave me a real shock to hear all 
this. It was like losing Santa Claus a 


MY LITTLE GREEK. 


89 


second time. The fairies had gone “ by 
the board ” some time before, and Little 
Red Riding-Hood and the wolf. I felt 
that this life was a deceitful and a hollow 
thing. I almost doubted the fact which 
this sham Peter Parley had stated, that the 
earth was round, — everything seemed 
so flat to me. 

But I was speaking of a sunshiny time, 
before life’s realities had saddened me, 
before its great questions had agitated 
me, before I had got beyond the easiest 
lessons in reading and spelling. I had 
extremely vague ideas of geography. 
My world was a very small one. I be- 
lieved, I remember, that all civilized coun- 
tries and peoples were within the circle 
of our horizon ; that all beyond our sight, 
looking from the roof of our house, or the 
top of a hill near by, was but waste and 
wilderness, where wolves and bears, tigers 
and wild-cats, ranged, and elephants and 
hippopotamuses tramped, and dreadful 
heathen savages, such as wild Indians, 


90 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 


Hottentots, and bloody Turks, raged and 
ravaged, and made war every day of 
their lives, not excepting Sundays. 

I had been told that Greece was f over 
the water,” and I took the idea that it 
lay just beyond a large pond, that could 
be seen shining like a great sheet of 
silver from my chamber window. Often 
did I stand at that window, looking over 
towards what I supposed to be the beau- 
tiful land of poetry and art, and thinking 
pityingly of poor Greek children, wan- 
dering in the dark woods, crying with 
fear and hunger, perhaps fatherless and 
motherless, without shoes and stockings, 
or any clothes to speak of. I thought I 
saw refugee Greeks in all the stragglers 
that came along, and was bitterly dis- 
appointed when they proved to be Irish 
trampers, or basket-selling Indians. 

At last my imagination fixed itself up- 
on a fugitive little Greek boy, who, after 
having had his papa and mamma, grand- 
papa and grandmamma, brothers and sis- 


MY LITTLE GREEK. 


91 


ters, uncles, aunts, and cousins, all cru- 
elly murdered, and his house burnt down, 
should run away from the long-bearded 
Turks, and run all the way round the 
pond, and past the saw-mill and the 
cider-mill and the school-house, and up 
the hill and down the hill, and not stop 
running till he should reach our place, 
when I myself should run out and catch 
him in my own arms, and comfort him, 
and wipe away his tears with my apron, 
and give him a cookie, and lead him into 
the house, and have him for my own 
adopted boy forever and ever ! 

In fact, I soon believed in him as a real 
live personage, who should surely come 
“ one of these days.” I looked for him 
morning, noon, and night. I thought of 
him almost continually through the day, 
and had bright visions of hinl in my sleep. 
Yet I said not a word about him to any 
one of the household. I was shy and 
sensitive. I feared they might not be- 
lieve in him, and then I meant him to be 


92 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 


a surprise. Yet now and then I stole 
away into the old garret, to my dolls and 
kittens, and unburdened my heart of its 
dear secret to them, and felt that ' they 
sympathized with me, and would be dis- 
creet confidants. 

My poor little Greek, — I could paint 
his portrait now, as my fond fancy often 
painted it then. He was to be about five 
years old, and rather thin, with delicate 
hands and feet. He should be exceedingly 
fair, without a freckle, with the rosiest 
cheeks and lips ; and his eyes (I was a long 
time settling their color) should be blue 
as spring violets ; and his hair should be 
golden-red or reddish-gold, and it should 
curl enchantingly all over his head and 
shoulders, and never tangle on any occa- 
sion whatever ; and I would comb it my- 
self, and roll it up in papers every night, 
for he would be my own boy, you see. 
He should be sweet-tempered and polite, 
and with the least bit of a smile he should 
set lots of dimples agoing, and he should 


MY LITTLE GREEK. 


93 


not be like any other boy whatever. 
Most likely he would be a real prince, 
and wear a golden crown, all pointed, and 
splendid clothes, like the king’s son in 
Cinderella ; and his name should be Au- 
gustus Henry, and he should be mine , and 
call me 66 little mamma,” and I would 
bring him up “ in the way in which he 
should go.” 

0, what plans I laid for his education, 
his comfort and happiness ! I would love 
him, 0, so dearly ! and pet him and fondle 
him all that would be good for him, but 
then there must be discipline ! Prince 
though he were, he must be taught 
Christian manners. He must not be al- 
lowed to laugh in prayer-time ; he must 
be made to take off his crown when older 
people were present; to say “ yes, sir,” 
and “ no, sir,” “yes, ma’am,” and “no, 
ma’am,” and to make a low bow to the 
minister and the schoolmistress, and to 
honor his little mamma, — for he would 
be known everywhere as my boy. 


94 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 


I resolved that in some things I would 
be more indulgent towards him than most 
mothers with their own children. I would 
always tell him fairy stories, and give him 
lumps of sugar when he asked for them 
properly ; I would let him sit up late in 
the evening, when there was company ; 
I would allow him to lie abed pretty late, 
cold mornings ; I would n’t call him away 
from a good play to wind silk or pick 
currants ; I would let him say his lesson 
in his spelling-book right straight ahead, 
and not trip him up by “ skipping about ” ; 
I would pick out short, easy verses in the 
Bible for him to learn ; I never would 
put the poor little innocent fellow at the 
catechism or the multiplication table ; I 
would n’t oblige him to go to school when 
it rained, or when it snowed, or when the 
days were very long, hut I would let him 
go to the menagerie and the circus every 
time . He should have all the dogs he 
wanted, and all the kittens and rabbits, 
and a pet lamb, and a tame squirrel, 


MY LITTLE GREEK. 


and a woodchuck, if he should want one ; 
and he should have a snow-white pony, 
with its mane and tail tied with blue rib- 
bons, and little sleigh-bells on its bridle, 
and when he would ride out everybody 
would hear the jingling and the gallop- 
ing and run to the door and see it was 
my boy ! 

I would always call him Augustus 
Henry, but I should expect other folks to 
treat him with more respect, and call him 
Prince. Pie should never be made to wait 
till the second table, and he should n’t sit 
at the corner of the table, nor have a cor- 
ner-piece of pie put off upon him. He 
might be helped twice to sausage and 
pudding-sauce ; he should never have the 
“ drumstick,” but always the “ wish- 
bone,” with lots of nice white meat on it. 
I would see to it, for he would be mine , 
you know. 

I supposed he would be ill sometimes ; 
would have the stomach-ache, and catch 
the chicken-pox, and have to be vacci- 


96 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 


nated ; but he should never take any but 
nice-tasting medicine. He should have 
watchers, and sit in an arm-chair, and 
have a wet cloth on his forehead, and eat 
toast and jelly, and everybody would pity 
him and say, “ How pale your poor boy 
looks, ma’am ! ” and then he would close 
his eyes and moan. But presently he 
would get tired of it all, and jump up and 
play about as well as ever, and when the 
doctor would come to see him he would 
be so disappointed ! 

I would wash and dress my boy every 
day, and every night I would undress 
him and put him to bed. Then I would 
hear him say his “ Now I lay me ” prayer, 
first in English, then in Greek, so God 
would know he was the same boy he 
used to be ; and then I would tuck him 
in and kiss him good night. In the morn- 
ing I would let him come and get into 
my bed for a little while, and I would 
love him and hug him, for he would be 
my own dear little adopted darling child. 


MY LITTLE GREEK. 


97 


He would be such a spry, clever, accom- 
plished boy! He would know how to 
dance, and sing, and whistle, and play on 
the J ew’s-harp, and cut arrows and hearts 
out of shingles, and draw lions and things 
on the slate, and swim, and climb, and 
jump from the highest beam in the hay- 
mow, and should know how to make 
rabbits with pocket-handkerchiefs, and 
shadow-sheepheads on the wall with his 
hands. 

And he would be such a good boy ! He 
would no more use wicked words than 
little . Samuel, no more tell a lie than 
little George Washington. He would 
never rob birds’ -nests, nor stone frogs, 
nor drown kittens. He would never 
mock bald-headed old gentlemen, nor 
shout after crazy folks, nor ill-treat 
colored people, nor speak disrespectfully 
of girls. 

But if he ever should be naughty and 
deserve a whipping, he should have it. 
I would do my duty faithfully, but I 


98 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 


would n’t aggravate him by saying how 
sorry I was to do it, that I was n’t angry, 
and that it hurt me more than it could 
hurt him. If I had to whip him I ’d do 
it and have done with it. Then I would 
make up, and he would still be my own 
hoy for always. 

By and by, when I came to kiss him, 
I would find something rough on his face, 
and it would be whiskers, and he would 
be a man. Then I would take off his 
roundabout, and put on a long-skirted 
coat, and pretty soon I would find a nice 
little wife for him, and let him get mar- 
ried. I ’d go and live with them, and 
name all their children, and tell them 
how do govern them, and what to give 
them to eat, and what clothes to have 
them wear, and all that ; so we would live 
as happy and comfortable together as any 
family in a fairy tale. 

Really there was no end to the hopes 
I cherished and the plans I laid for my 
little Greek. No tender mother’s heart 


MY LITTLE GREEK. 


99 


was ever more completely filled with fond 
thoughts and cares for a real live baby, 
than was mine with the radiant image of 
this ideal darling, — this little unknown 
refugee, who was indeed a prince of fairy- 
land. 

One Saturday afternoon I sat in my 
little chair in the old kitchen, thinking 
of him as usual, and wondering if he 
would n’t come before night. I was es- 
pecially impatient for him, for that very 
morning I had discovered, beside a little 
brook in the meadow, a nest full of duck’s 
eggs, looking as blue, I thought, as though 
the sky had laid them. I wanted to show 
him these. And then, too, my cat had 
just found, close under the eaves in the 
garret, four of the tiniest, cunningest lit- 
tle kittens ever beheld. I wanted him 
to see these while their eyes were shut 
up, and they were tumbling about so fun- 
nily, falling olf their mother’s back, and 
only knowing her by her mew from any 
other cat. 


100 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 


I laughed to myself as I thought how, 
if he came that afternoon, I would take 
him to Sunday-school next day, and how 
all the children would stare and whisper, 
and admire his gold, high-pointed crown 
and red satin clothes, and how I would 
tell them he was mine, all mine ! 

At length I jumped up, ran out to the 
gate, and looked eagerly up the road, 
towards where lay Greece, according to 
my geography. At first, like Mrs. Blue- 
beard’s sister Anne, I saw nothing ; then, 
a little cloud of dust ; then, coming over 
the hill, the figure of a little boy running 
rapidly towards me ; and, 0, wonderful ! 
he had something on his head that shone 
dazzlingly in the declining sun. Was it my 
long-looked-for little Greek ? I doubted 
for a moment, for he had on clothes of 
no gay color, but seemed clad all in 
white, and the something bright on his 
head was evidently not gold. But then 
I bethought myself, maybe the Turks 
burned his palace at night, and drove him 


MY LITTLE GREEK. 


101 


out with only his night-clothes on ; and 
may be he had n’t time to get his best gold- 
en crown, but had to put on his every- 
day silver crown ; — so it is he, after all. 

Just as I came to this conclusion, a 
horseman appeared on the brow of the 
hill, galloping fiercely. I knew him at 
once for one of those wicked Turks, in 
pursuit of my little prince ! I was dread- 
fully scared, but my maternal feeling was 
too strong to let me retreat I stretched 
out my arms and called, “ Run, little 
Greek ! run ! the naughty Turk is close 
behind you ! ” I don’t know whether he 
heard me, but he looked round just then, 
and stopped quite still, as though fright- 
ened out of his wits. The Turk came 
on faster and faster ! How I wished his 
horse would “stub his toe” and fall with 
him, or that he would have a sun-stroke 
and tumble off! But on he came, and 
just as I was expecting to see him cut 
down my poor little Greek with his scym- 
itar, his horse seemed to take fright at 


102 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 


the gleaming of the Prince’s silver crown, 
shied, then leaped forward and ran down 
the road like mad ! My heart was in my 
throat as he came near, but I bravely 
stood my ground, and when he reached 
the gate, I looked that horrid Turk right 
in the face, — and found it was n’t he, at 
all ! It was my grown-up brother, who 
lived away from home, and had come to 
spend Sunday with us, and to show us 
his long-tailed white horse, and to bring 
me a paper of candies. I was delighted 
to see him. He did n’t know what made 
me so glad. I was so thankful that he was 
a respectable young Christian, and not a 
heathen Turk, going about smoking mon- 
strous pipes, and cutting and slashing 
at poor orphan boys. In my joy and 
surprise, I for a moment actually forgot 
my little Greek. When I looked up the 
road for him he was close by us, and alas ! 
it was n’t he, either ! It w T as a little 
neighbor of ours, a playmate of my own, 
and a good enough boy, though rather 


MY LITTLE GREEK. 


103 


mischievous and queer. He had on a 
suit of coarse, half-bleached linen, — the 
Prince’s night-clothes ! On his head, set 
down over his torn straw hat, he carried 
a small tin pail, — the Prince’s crown ! 

“ Why, Benny, why do you wear that 
pail on your head?” asked my brother; 
“ it frightened my horse.” 

“ I d’n know ; just for fun ; you see, your 
mother lent it to my mother last night, 
full of cider, and I ’ve brought it back ; 
but I won’t do so no more. Now I must 
go ; mother told me I ’d better hurry, for 
we ’re going to have hot cakes and honey 
for supper ! ” 

Somehow, I always had a spite against 
that boy after that ! 

I went into the house that evening a 
wiser and a sadder child. Not that I 
gave up at once all hope of seeing my 
little Greek ; but as day after day went 
by without bringing him, I lost faith, and 
for that reason, perhaps, I never saw him 
coming over the hill. Fainter and faint- 


104 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 


er grew the glow of his pretty cheeks, 
the blue gleam of his eyes, the shine of 
his bright curls, in my inconstant mind. 
His gorgeous apparel faded ; his golden 
crown glimmered away, point after point, 
and vanished from my thought and 
dreams. I have never seen him to this 
day, though I have once gone more than 
half-way to Greece to meet him. Some- 
body must have found him and harbored 
him ; and any information in regard to 
the lost Prince will be thankfully received 
by her who would have been his loving 
mamma . 




































































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MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.’ 


In our quiet country neighborhood, at 
a turn of the road, between our house 
and the school-house, in a primitive but 
neatly kept log-cabin, lived a family by 
the name of Pettingill. Mrs. Pettingill — 
I mention her first because she was the 
person of most consequence in the house, 
the real head of the family, — was an 
industrious, energetic, high-tempered wo- 
man, who attended faithfully to her home 
duties, and beat all the housekeepers for 
miles about at scrubbing and scouring, 
besides taking upon herself a great deal 
of care for other people, — for their man- 
ners and morals, their marrying and 
meeting-going, their doctrines and doc- 
toring, their fevers and fall-picklings, their 
quiltings and sheep-shearings, apple-par- 
ings, cheese-pressings, sausage and cider 


106 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 


makings. Besides attending to the busi- 
ness of the neighborhood generally, and 
being the life of funerals and camp-meet- 
ings, she did considerable spinning and 
weaving, — a remarkable woman for that 
day. 

Mr. Pettingill was a man of no partic- 
ular character or calling. He was not 
gifted with what the Yankees call “fac- 
ulty,” and never got on very rapidly in 
the world. He had a little land, but 
never half farmed it ; he had a little shoe- 
maker’s shop, but he was never in it. 
He did a great many different things, but 
none -of them well; in short, he was a 
lazy, inoffensive man, who had never dis- 
covered what he was sent into this world 
for; and, as nobody was able to settle 
the question for him, he generally went 
a fishing. 

There was an indefinite number of 
white-headed children to be seen, out of 
school-hours, looking through the small 
windows of the Pettingill habitation, or 







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MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.” 107 


seesawing on a board thrust between the 
rails of the front fence, or making mud- 
pies in the road. But we have nothing 
to do with these ; this true story of mine 
concerns their big brother Bob, oldest son 
and heir of their ancient house. Now 
Master Bob enjoyed the unenviable rep- 
utation of being the bully of our school 
and neighborhood. He was an over- 
grown, broad-chested, big-fisted fellow, — 
conceited, boastful, greedy, and quarrel- 
some, — the terror of all little boys and 
girls, and the horror of all loving mammas. 

It was generally supposed that no boy 
in all that region was strong enough to 
w T hip Bob Pettingill, or plucky enough to 
undertake it. It was known that his 
father was afraid of him, and it was whis- 
pered that even his mother had given 
over all attempts to “make him stand 
round.” He went to school when he 
pleased, and treated the schoolmistress 
with shocking irreverence. On the school 
play-ground he swaggered and swelled, 


108 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 


and seemed really such a powerful and 
terrible fellow that it was my private 
opinion that only General Washington 
would be equal to a hand-to-hand encoun- 
ter with him. 

Very soon after the Pettingills moved 
into our neighborhood, Bob’s character 
for bullying and teasing became known, 
and my brothers were charged by both 
father and mother to avoid him as much 
as possible, and to give him no cause or 
pretext for quarrelling. 

In order to obey these injunctions, we 
children usually went to school “ across 
lots,” thus avoiding the log-house of the 
Pettingills, before or -near which the re- 
doubtable Bob kept watch for prey. But 
in bad weather, when the pastures were 
wet, or impassable from snow-drifts, we 
were obliged to take the road and endure 
his insults and mean tricks as best we 
could. The leader of our trembling lit- 
tle flock was usually our brother, with 
the royal old English name, Rufus, — a 


“much ado about nothing.” 109 


courageous, good-humored, handsome lad 
of about fourteen, who answered Bob’s 
coarse taunts with a light jest, or a light- 
er laugh, and managed most adroitly to 
avoid an open quarrel ; not only because 
he wished to keep the peace according 
to his instructions, but because he had a 
natural distaste for all scenes of violence 
and contention. Even to this day it takes 
a great deal to rouse him to the fighting 
point; but when his blood is up, look 
out ! 

Well, it happened that one showery 
summer morning as we were hurrying 
along to school, being a little late, as we 
too often were, our politic protector fell 
behind to stone some crows from a corn- 
field. We passed the" Pettingill 'house in 
safety, and were beginning to breathe 
freely, when, sudden as a thunderbolt, 
our enemy fell upon our flank from an 
ambush of elders by the wayside ! Laugh- 
ing at our fright, he proceeded to drop 
down my brother Will’s back, under the 


110 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 


shirt, a handful of rough burrs, and to 
thrust some leaves of “ smart-weed ” into 
his mouth, calling it “baccy.” Then he 
painted our youngest brother’s pale, tear- 
ful little face with the juice of the elder- 
berry; and then, “ unkind est cut of all,” 
began to help himself to pie and dough- 
nuts from our dinner-basket. At that 
my sister and I set up a wild cry of in- 
dignation and bereavement, which pres- 
ently brought our lagging young knight 
to the rescue. 

“Hallo, Bob! what are you about?” 
he asked, as he came running up. 

“None of your business,” growled the 
insolent young tyrant, stuffing a whole 
doughnut into his great mouth. 

Brother began to pull off his brown- 
linen jacket in a quiet, leisurely way. 

“ What are you about, youngster ? ” 
asked Bob. 

“You see what I am about,” was the 
reply, “ and you had better follow my 
example, or your mother will have the 


MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.” Ill 


biggest job of washing and mending she 
ever undertook ; for I ’m going to give 
you a thundering thrashing.” 

" You thrash me ! ” cried Bob, with a 
snort of contempt, extending his huge 
fist. "Why, with one leetle blow of my 
mallet here I could knock you into the 
middle of next week afore you could say 
Jack Robinson ! ” 

“ We ’ll see about that,” rejoined my 
brother, still very quietly, while shoving 
up his wristbands and bracing himself. 

I looked from him, so light, so slender, 
to his burly antagonist, and my heart 
sank. "0 brother,” I said, pressing up 
to his side, "don’t try to fight him; he 
may kill you, he ’s so awful big and 
strong ! ” 

" I don’t believe it,” broke in my sister 
Carrie, a little older and a good deal 
braver than I •; “ the Bible says the bat- 
tle ain’t always to the strong. Remem- 
ber little David and Jack the Giant- 
Killer” 


112 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 


« Stand back, both of you ! ” exclaimed 
Will, who stood holding his brother’s hat, 
and looking agreeably excited. a Females 
don’t know anything about battles, and 
should n’t interfere. I will help brother 
if he ’s likely to get the worst of it.” 

“ Don’t any of you interfere ; I can lay 
out this lubberly chap without assist- 
ance,” said our champion in a light, mock- 
ing way, peculiarly exasperating to the 
proud young bully. 

With a yell of rage and derision he 
rushed at our brother with both porten- 
tous fists doubled. But our Rufus, who 
was as quick and lithe as a cat, and, for 
all his apparent delicacy, as strong as a 
young bull-dog, parried the heavy blows, 
clinched his antagonist, tripped up his 
feet, and the next instant had the clumsy 
fellow down under him on the grass. 
Keeping him down with his knees as firm 
as steel, the blows of his hard little fist 
fell upon that ugly freckled face quick 
and sharp as a hail-storm ! Very soon, to 


“much ado about nothing.” 113 


our astonishment, the great bully gave 
up struggling, cried out for mercy, and 
promised all sorts of good behavior. But 
his conqueror seemed a little hard of 
hearing just then, deafened, perhaps, by 
the shouts of triumph set up by his broth- 
ers and some school-fellows who had 
been drawn to the scene of combat ; or 
he did not believe in such sudden conver- 
sions, and was fearful of being too mag- 
nanimous. But he let up Bob at last, a 
good deal damaged. We were all gen- 
erous enough not to laugh, as he turned 
humbly from the field of his defeat, and 
slunk away home to his mother, crying 
bitterly. I fancy he slept that night 
under a mask of brown paper, wet with 
vinegar. I know he retired from the 
world for the space of several days, and, 
when he reappeared, his occupation as a 
bully was gone forever. 

We went on to school that day exult- 
ant, but not quite free from apprehension. 
It seemed to us that the foundations of 


114 RECOLLECTION'S OF MY CHILDHOOD. 


society in our neighborhood must be shak- 
en by this momentous event. We looked 
all day for a visit from Mr. or Mrs. Pet- 
tingill and a stern demand on the school- 
ma’am for judgment on the offender ; for 
Pettingill blood had been made to flow 
in a considerable stream from the nose 
of Master Bob, and still cried for ven- 
geance from amid the dandelions and 
chickweed of the wayside. 

But no such awful visitation took place. 
We went home “ across lots,” instinctive- 
ly avoiding the stronghold of our enemy. 
Our father was absent, but we found our 
mother in the pleasant old kitchen, pre- 
paring a batch of bread for the oven. 
To her we opened our budget of news, — 
made our report of the great engagement. 
She looked a little troubled, but there 
was a queer smile hovering about her 
lips as she said, “ I am very sorry to hear 
this, my boy ; you may have started such 
a family feud as that between the Capu- 
lets and Montagues, which I read to you 


MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.” 115 


about in Shakespeare the other night. 
How could you get into such a quarrel 
when you know how desirous your father 
and I are to be on friendly terms with 
our neighbors, and how faithfully we have 
tried to teach our children to obey the 
scriptural injunction, “to live, in peace 
with all men ” ? 

“Yes, mother; but it don’t say any- 
thing about bullying hoys. I really could 
n’t see my brothers and sisters put upon 
by that vulgar tow-headed braggart any 
longer. I don’t believe St. Paul himself 
could have stood it. Besides, the fellow 
needed chastising and polishing off badly ; 
it will do him good and benefit the com- 
munity.” 

My mother smiled in spite of herself, 
but added, “You should put a strong 
check on your temper, my son, and not 
let your angry passions rise, whatever 
bad boys may do.” 

“ Why, mother, I was n’t angry at all,” 
was the eager reply. “I was as cool as 


116 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 


a cucumber. I knew I was doing the 
right thing. My conscience patted me 
on the back and told me to go in and 
win. I tell you what, mother, I felt 
righteous. I could almost have said 
6 Now I lay me ,’ before pitching in. I shall 
never repent of what 1 did, not even if 
father punishes me for it ; I don’t believe 
he will, though, for he would have done 
the same when he was a boy like me.” 

Just then Will, who stood by the win- 
dow, exclaimed in an awe-struck voice, 
a There is old Pettingill coming in at the 
gate ! Now there ’ll be a row, and you ’ll 
catch it, young man.” 

“ 0 dear ! ” said my mother, looking 
anxious and perplexed, “this is just 
what I feared ; I wish your father was at 
home.” 

Rufus looked a little startled, and then 
quite sober ; but he did not stir from his 
seat, and he said, smiling, “ Don’t be 
afraid, mother ; let us be thankful that it 
is n’t Mrs. Pettingill.” 


u MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.” 117 


I was in an agony of terror. I ima- 
gined nothing less than that my beloved 
brother would be soundly beaten by that 
angry father, and then dragged to jail, 
where he would be fed on bread and 
water, lie on the straw, and be obliged 
to rattle his chains all night to drive off 
the rats and mice. As these fears beset 
me, I cried out, “ 0 brother, hide ! hide ! 
down in the cellar, or in the pantry, or 
under the bed in mother’s room, or crawl 
into the oven ; he will never think of 
looking for you there.” 

The poor fellow laughed out in his old 
merry way ; it seemed to me so strange 
at that solemn moment. 

“ Why, you dear little goosey,” he 
said, “ don’t you see that the oven is all 
heated up for baking ? Do you want to 
roast me ? ” 

Just then there came a heavy rap at 
the kitchen door. Mother opened it, 
and our dreaded neighbor entered, with 
a gruff u How de du, ma’am ? ” He took 


118 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 


the chair she proffered, and looked round 
upon us children in a sharp way that made 
our hearts beat faster than ever. Turn- 
ing again to our mother, he said, with a 
lazy drawl, “Your son Rewfus ain’t to 
hum, is he?” — a queer Yankee way of 
putting a question. 

Before she could answer, the boy re- 
ferred to stepped forward, saying, “ I am 
Rufus, at your service, sir.” 

“Be you ? ” replied our visitor. “ Why, 
du tell ! you ’re a smaller chap than I ex- 
pected to see. Is it true now that you 
licked my big boy, Bob, this morning ? ’ 

“ I had that honor, sir, and I can’t say 
I ’m sorry,” replied the hardened culprit. 
At this audacious answer, which made my 
blood run cold, Mr. Pettingill “grinned 
horribly a ghastly smile,” and I covered 
my face with my pinafore, not wishing to 
look on what was likely to follow. 

“ Say, now, did you do it all alone ? ” 

“ Y es, sir ; nobody else is to blame for 
it, and I ought to have done it long ago,” 


“much ado about nothing.” 119 


said Rufus, stoutly, like a young Ajax 
defying the lightnings of fate. 

“ Waal,” continued our neighbor, in his 
slow, drawling way, which seemed to me 
terribly cruel and relentless, “ when I 
come home from fishing this arternoon, 
and my old woman told me about it, I 
guess, says I, I ’ll go right down to the 
Doctor’s and see to this here business.” 

" Now it ’s coming ! ” thinks I to myself, 
peeping out from my pinafore ; but the 
vengeful Pettingill went calmly on : — 

“ For, says I to Betsey, says I, it ’s 
clearly my bounden duty tu thank that 
hoy for the good turn he has done me ; and 
Betsey, she says to me , 6 Du it, Jeremiah, 
and take my thanks tu.’ And so I ’ve 
come, and I du thank you, my plucky 
little fellow, and here ’s my hand on it. 

"Now, ma’am,” he continued, turning 
again to mother, wdio looked not a little 
relieved, "don’t you go to blame this 
brave little chap of yourn, and don’t let 
the Doctor blame him ; for that boy of 


120 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD. 


ourn needed a thrashing the worst way. 
I thought he had got beyond me; but 
now that his sperit is kinder broke, I 
should n’t wonder if I took him in hand 
myself, the next time he gives me any 
of his sass. I ’m a peaceable man, and so 
is Betsey ; but I say agin, I ’m obleeged 
to your boy for that there good thrashing 
he give my Bob, and if the Doctor will 
call on me when he gits in his wheat 
and oats, I ’ll do a thrashing job for him . 
Good day, all ! ” So our neighbor de- 
parted, leaving lightened hearts and 
laughing faces behind him. 

And so ended our great scare, and so 
ends my story. 


PART SECOND. 


THE AUNT FKOM THE WEST. 

In the eastern part of the State of New 
York, there once lived two sisters, Sarah 
and Jenny Starr. They were left orphans 
when very young, and had been adopted by 
some kind relations ; but Sarah, who was 
four or five years the oldest, took almost all 
the care of Jenny. Sarah was a good, 
motherly girl, very prudent and serious ; 
she was plain in all but a pair of large, 
dark brown eyes, and a great mass of curly 
black hair. But she thought nothing of 
herself, so dearly did she love her little 
sister. And Jenny was, indeed, a darling 
child, with a far prettier face than Sarah's, 
and the gladdest heart in the world. She 
would play, and laugh, and sing, all the da^ 


122 THE AUNT FROM THE WEST. 

long. No one ever saw Jenny sad, or out 
of humor ; but, perhaps, this was partly 
because, being so beautiful and so prettily 
dressed always, everybody was kind to her, 
and indulged her. It is easy for such pet- 
ted children to be happy and good-natured. 
But, any way, it was a pleasant sight to see 
her dancing about here and there, chasing 
butterflies, hunting flowers, frolicking with 
her pretty spaniel Fido, laughing like a 
little silver brook, and singing like some 
merry mocking-bird ; most often with her 
gypsy hat fallen back from her head, and 
her long bright curls floating in the wind. 

When Jenny was only sixteen, she was 
married to a Mr. Silsbee, a very wealthy 
gentleman, and went to live in a beautiful 
place, near the town where she was born. 
She had an elegant house, surrounded with 
trees and flowers, and everything delightful 
about her. 

Soon after this, Sarah was also married 
to a young man who had loved her a num 
ber of years, but whom she had not been 


THE AUNT FROM THE WEST. 123 


willing to marry until she could see her sis- 
ter Jenny living in a home of her own 
Henry Williams was not rich, but he was a 
good, amiable person. Sarah loved him, 
and was very happy to be his wife. He 
was a physician, and soon took her with 
him to the far west, thinking that he might 
do better there than in the east. 

The sisters grieved much at parting. 
Both wept a great deal, — Jenny the most 
violently, and Sarah the longest. But they 
hoped to see each other before a very long 
time. 

In about two months, J enny had a long 
letter from her sister. Dr. Williams had 
bought some land, and built a little frame 
house, in a beautiful oak-grove, on one of 
the great western prairies. Sarah wrote 
very cheerfully, and begged her sister to 
come out and make her a visit, in a year oi 
two. But Jenny was indolent, and dreaded 
the trouble of journeying, which was much 
greater at that time than it is now. So 
she was always promising, but never went 


124 THE AUNT FROM THE WEST. 

to see her sister ; neither did she write to 
her regularly. Sarah grew tired of writing 
long letters, which received short answers, 
or none at all, and wrote herself less often ; 
and, at last, the sisters, who, in childhood, 
had been such close and loving companions, 
scarcely heard from one another once a 
year. Yet they loved each other still, 
though the thoughtful Sarah remembered 
the dear old times oftener than the light- 
hearted Jenny. 

And so eight long years went by. Jenny 
was yet as happy as ever. Her husband 
was very fond of her, and she still had all 
around her that her heart could desire. 
First, among the good things that God had 
given her, were three lovely children, — 
two boys, Georgie and Willie, and one 
daughter, “ little Kate.” 

Jenny made a funny sort of a mother. 
She was just like a child with her children ; 
would romp and laugh with them, run 
races, and play with balls, kites, kittens and 
^oil-babies. And Jenny looked like a child 


THE AUNT FROM THE WEST. 125 


herself. She was short and plump, with 
dimpled cheeks, rosy lips, bright curls, and 
twinkling blue eyes. Any little boy or girl 
would be very unreasonable to ask a merrier 
playmate than Jenny Silsbee. 

To Sarah had been given two daughters, 
whom she had named for her mother, and 
sister, Alice and Jenny. They were not so 
pretty as the children of Mrs. Silsbee, for 
the climate of the new country proved 
unhealthy, and they were always pale and 
sickly. But their father and mother loved 
them all the more dearly and cared for 
them the more tenderly for that. Mrs. 
Williams was also often sick, and her hus- 
band did not have much practice ; so they 
were quite poor. But the doctor was a 
proud man, and did not ask his friends in the 
east for assistance ; and Sarah was also too 
independent in her feelings to write to her 
wealthy sister for help. She did not doubt 
but that Jenriy would be glad to give it ; 
but she knew it must come from Mr. 
Silsbee, and she did not wish to have the 


126 THE AUNT FROM THE WEST. 


doctor indebted to him, for Sarah was only 
proud for her husband. 

One chilly autumn day, about sunset, 
Mrs. Silsbee was sitting in a comfortable 
arm-chair, before a bright fire, in her hand- 
some parlor, stitching away at some worsted- 
work. After quite tiring herself out frol- 
icking with her children, she had turned 
them into the hall to finish their play by 
themselves. Suddenly, she heard the dog 
barking furiously in the yard; and, soon 
after, Georgie and Willie burst into the 
parlor, crying, “ 0, mamma! come into 
the hall ! there is such a queer-looking 
old woman there, with such a funny plaid 
cloak, and such an old old-fashioned bon- 
net on ! ” 

Half dragged by her merry boys, Mrs. 
Silsbee went into the hall. At her first 
look on the stranger’s old-fashioned dress, 
Jenny laughed with the children r she was 
so childish. But, in a moment, she saw 
that the woman was poor, for her clothes 
were much worn ; that she had been sick. 


THE AUNT FROM THE WEST. 127 


for her face was thin and pale ; and that 
she was probably tired, for she carried a 
heavy carpet-bag on her arm. 

So Jenny said, kindly, “ Will you not be 
seated ? And pray tell me what I can do 
for you, my good woman.” 

“Don’t you know me?” replied the 
stranger, sadly. Jenny shook her head. 

The woman took off her bonnet, and, as 
she did so, her hair fell on her shoulders, — 
Sarah’s own curly black hair. “Now, 
don’t you know me, Jenny? ” she cried, her 
great brown eyes filled with tears. Jenny 
sprang toward her, caught her in her arms, 
and then the sisters kissed one another, 
and wept together. The children were 
sadly puzzled to know what all this meant ; 
but they cried too, clinging to their mother. 
At last, Mrs. Silsbee said to them, “ This, 
children, is your aunt Sarah, from the west, 
whom I have told you so much about. 
Come, and kiss her.” And they kissed her 
very affectionately. 


128 THE AUNT FROM THE WEST. 

When they were all seated around the 
fire, in the parlor, Jenny said, 

“ Now, dear sister, do tell me what this 
means ! Why do you come to us alone, 
and in this condition ? ” 

Sarah replied calmly, “ It means, Jenny, 
that my husband is dead. He was ill a 
long time with the fever, and the expenses 
of his sickness made us very poor. I was 
obliged to sell everything, to get money 
enough to bring me to you.” 

“ But your children, — where are they ? ” 
Jenny asked. 

“ They died before their father.” 

“ What, both ? ” 

“Yes, both,” answered Sarah, — “my 
two dear little girls. So, Jenny, I would 
have no children to make sport of you, 
should you come, poor and alone, to see 
me.” 

“0, sister, sister, don’t say anything 
about that again, but forgive me and the 
children! ” said Jenny, weeping; and lifting 
Sarah’s dry, bony hand, she kissed it in a 


THE AUNT FROM THE WEST. 129 


humble, loving way. But Willie looked up 
in her face, and said, stoutly, though his 
lip quivered all the while, 

“ Why, Aunt Sarah, we didn’t know it 
was you , or we wouldn’t have laughed at 
your queer old bonnet. Now, you may 
wear two or three such bonnets, one on 
top of the other, and we won’t make fun 
of you.” 

Even the sad aunt laughed at this funny 
speech. Jenny and the other children 
joined in, and they all made friends. 

Mr. Silsbee soon came in to tea. He 
seemed very glad to see his sister-in-law, 
and welcomed her to his home. 

Afterwards, he and his wife did all they 
could to make Sarah comfortable and happy; 
the children grew very fond of their gentle 
aunt, who seemed to love them almost as 
well as though they were her own. One 
lesson she taught them by her coming : never 
to be rude to strangers, or to laugh at any 
person for wearing a poor or old-fashioned 
dress. 


130 THE AUNT FROM THE WEST. 


Sarah grew better in health, and became 
quite cheerful ; yet often, at sunset, she 
would sit by the windows, looking out 
toward the west. At such times, Jenny 
would cease laughing and chatting, and the 
children would gather about their aunt, very 
still and sorrowful, for they knew she was 
thinking of their uncle Henry, and the 
“ two dear little girls,” Alice and Jenny, 
all lying in their lonely graves, in the dis- 
tant prairie land. 

She has left her husband sleeping, 

With a child on either side; — 

Did he hope so soon to meet them. 

That he wept not when they died ? 

Brightly on the mound above him. 

And above each little grave, 

Soon all golden, blue and crimson, 

Shall the western wild-flowers wave. 

Though thou ’rt far, sad wife and mother. 

From the home so dear to thee, 

Where the long grass of the prairies 
Rolls in billows like the sea, 

Grieve not for thy babes, for sickness 
Pains no more their tender breasts. 

And their father, worn and weary. 

Close beside them sweetly rests 


THE AUNT FROM THE WEST. 


Though upon their graves thy tear-drops 
Fall no longer with the dew. 

Till the stars come out in heaven. 

And the moon rolls up the blue, 

God’s good angels guard their grave-rest. 
In the distant prairie land ; 

God shall bring you all together. 

In a heavenly household band. 


LITTLE CHARLIE’S WILL. 


Walter and Charlie Harrison were the 
sons of a sea-captain, and lived in one of 
the fine old seaport towns of Massachusetts. 

These boys were as unlike as two brothers 
could well be. Walter was a rough, plain 
boy, large of his age, and rather clumsy, 
with a passionate, jealous temper, which 
gave his friends a great deal of trouble. 
But he had some noble qualities : he was as 
brave as a young lion, faithful, diligent, 
perfectly honest and truthful, and sometimes 
very tender in his feelings. Charlie, some 
two years younger than Walter, was a deli- 
cate, beautiful, sweet-tempered boy, who 
loved everybody, and in return was greatly 
beloved. He was fair, pale, and slight, 
with blue eyes and golden curls. Walter 
said he looked like a girl, and sometimes 
laughed at his delicacy ; but, for all that, 


little Charlie’s will. 


133 


he was jealous of the poor child’s beauty — 
even of his weakness. 

Captain Harrison was most of the time 
at sea, and his gentle wife found it difficult 
to control the impatient spirit, or correct the 
even more unamiable moodiness, of her eld- 
est son. If she ^proved him sternly, he 
would often accuse her of being partial to 
her youngest and handsomest son, and say 
that she petted and indulged Charlie so 
much, that he could not be disobedient, or 
give her any trouble ; he himself, he said, 
would be good, if he were so treated. 

Walter really thought himself slighted 
and unloved, because he knew he was very 
plain, and he saw his sickly brother cared 
for constantly. He never seemed to think 
how ridiculous it would look in his mother 
to be nursing and petting a stout, healthy 
boy, who was one of the strongest wrestlers, 
and the best hand with the ball, in all the 
town. 

Walter, with all his fine health, was often 
silent and sullen, while his brother was sel- 


134 


little Charlie’s will. 


dom too ill to be talkative and cheerful ; so 
Lt was very natural for visiters to notice 
Charlie the most, and, as they supposed he 
needed amusing, to send him books and to 
make him presents most frequently. All 
this “ partiality” was shown to him, Walter 
said, because he happened to have a plain 
face, and did n’t know how to put himself 
forward. Charlie was grieved at this, and 
always wished to share his gifts with his 
brother ; but Walter could never be per- 
suaded to accept anything. 

One time, when Charlie was about ten 
years old, his mother had a visit from a 
pious maiden aunt, who spent some weeks 
in the family. During Miss Hannah Per- 
kins’ stay, she became much attached to 
quiet little Charlie ; but as Walter gave way 
to his temper, two or three times, before 
her, and made sport of some of her queer 
ways, she did not like him over-much, 
though she thought he might be made a 
good boy of, with proper management. She 
wondered how his mother could let such fits 


little Charlie's will. 


135 


of passion and such naughty tricks pass 
without severe punishment. If he were her 
child, she said, she would soon whip that 
bad temper out of him. But Mrs. Harrison 
believed that one blow would put more evil 
passion into the heart of such a proud boy 
as Walter than she could ever get out. 

She never failed seriously to reprove his 
faults and wrong actions ; and she knew — 
what she told no one — that Walter would 
always come to her, after an outburst of 
impatience or bad feeling, and ask her for- 
giveness. She knew that he loved her, his 
father, brother and little sister, intensely: 
so she was patient, and prayed God to soften 
the heart and subdue the temper of her 
unhappy child. 

A short time after Aunt Hannah returned 
home, she sent the boys each a book. 
Charlie's happened to be opened first. It was 
a handsome illustrated copy of “Robinson 
Crusoe.” Walter then eagerly opened his 
own, which was rather gayly bound. It was 
“ The Memoirs of a Sunday-school Scholar .” 


136 


little Charlie’s will. 


Walter flung it down, saying, angrily, 
“ What did the old maid send me this for, 
I wonder ? I have had enough of such 
things out of the Sunday-school Library. 
She did not send you such a humdrum sort 
of a book, Charlie. I suppose she thought 
you were pious enough, without.” 

“ 0 brother,” said Charlie, “ don’t talk 
so hard. I am sure Aunt Hannah meant 
very kindly by us both.” 

Walter took up his book, and began look- 
ing through it ; but he soon broke out again, 
— “ Pshaw ! just as I thought ; nothing but 
‘ early piety,’ ‘ early piety.’ Why could n’t 
she have sent me some story about wars, or 
pirates, or even Indians ? I am tired to 
death of £ early piety ! ’ ” 

“You will never trouble your friends with 
it, my son,” said Mrs. Harrison, who had 
just entered the room. Walter started and 
blushed ; he did not know that his mother 
was so near. But he replied, sullenly, “ I 
wish I might not trouble them in any way, 
any longer. It would be better for all if I 


little Charlie's will. 


137 


were dead and buried ; for I 'm of no use 
in the world, and nobody loves me.” 

After having said these unkind words, 
Walter took his ball-club, and went out on to 
the village-green, where the boys were al- 
ready at play. Charlie soon followed ; not 
to mingle in the sport, for he was not strong 
enough for that, — but he loved always to 
watch his brother, and felt proud of his 
skill and strength. 

After about a half-hour's play, many of 
the boys set out for home, as a hard storm 
seemed coming on. The clouds were rolling 
up thick and black, the lightnings flashed, 
and the thunder broke overhead. Walter 
Harrison, who had appeared half angry in 
all his play, was now leaning against the 
side of the church, within a yard or two of 
the lightning-rod. The boys called to him 
to come away, as he was in a dangerous 
place ; but Walter would not stir. Charlie 
ran up to him, and begged him to go home ; 
but he only said, “I don’t care if the 
lightning does strike me. I tell you again, 


138 


LITTLE CHARLIE S WILL. 


I 'in of no use in the world — nobod}' loves 
me. You may run home, if you are afraid.” 

“I am not afraid for myself, brother,” 
said Charlie, his lip quivering ; “ but I will 
go home and beg mamma to come for you.” 

Charlie had not run half across the green, 
when there came a great blaze of lightning, 
and a heavy crash of thunder, which seemed 
to shake the very ground, The boys who 
were looking toward the church said that 
they saw the lightning roll down the rod 
like a ball of fire, and disappear in the 
earth ; and that, at the same instant, Wal- 
ter fell to the ground. They ran to him at 
once, raised him up, and carried him home, 
The poor boy's eyes and mouth were open, 
but he seemed quite dead. The doctor was 
sent for, — came immediately, took Walter 
from the bed, laid him on the floor, and began 
pouring cold water upon him by the bucket- 
ful. Mrs. Harrison had been strangely 
calm, at. first ; but when Walter began to 
show some little signs of life, the joy was 
more than she could bear, and she fainted 


little Charlie’s will. 


139 


away. She went from one fainting fit into 
another; and when Walter was at last so 
much restored as to ask for her, she was 
lying quite insensible. Then first he knew 
how deeply and dearly his mother loved him. 
Little Charlie threw himself down by Wal- 
ter, in the water, which was flooding the 
room, and the brothers kissed one another, 
and cried for joy. It was many days before 
Walter was entirely well ; but, when he did 
get about, everybody noticed a great change 
in him. He was more kind and pleasant ; 
far less jealous and passionate ; he was 
happier, and made others happier, than ever 
before. He was so sure now that his mother 
truly loved him ; and he knew, he said, that 
he could never again be jealous of his little 
brother. But, alas ! Walter did not know 
himself. When he was fourteen, and his 
brother — still called “little Charlie” — 
about twelve, a wealthy uncle came from 
Boston for a brief visit. As this gentleman 
had no family, it was thought that Walter, 
who had been named for him, would be the 


140 


little Charlie’s will. 


heir to his fortune. For this very reason, 
Walter was too proud to pay him any court; 
indeed, he hardly paid him proper respect 
and attention, and was generally silent and 
reserved in his presence. Mr. Rogers did 
not understand this manner ; he thought 
Walter sullen and cold, and, though he 
could but see that he was an honest, intel- 
ligent boy, he was not, on the whole, pleased 
with him. But, like all other visiters, he 
was quite charmed with little Charlie ; and 
he had not been long gone from the village, 
before there arrived from Boston a beautiful 
white pony, handsomely saddled and bri- 
dled, “ For Master Charles Harrison .” 
In a letter to his sister, Mr. Rogers said, 
“ Thinking that a daily ride may benefit my 
little invalid nephew, I send a pony, which 
is both spirited and docile. I hope that 
Charlie will accept it, with the kind wishes 
of ‘ Uncle W T alter.’ ” 

Both Mrs. Harrison and Charlie were 
pained that no present came for Walter, and 
that he was scarcely mentioned in the let- 


little Charlie’s will. 


141 


ter ; while, as for Walter, he felt the old 
jealous feeling boiling up from his heart, 
hotter than ever, and said some hard things, 
which he had better have left unsaid. 

“ Why, brother,” said Charlie, “the pony 
shall be as much yours as mine ; you may 
ride it every day.” 

“ No, I won’t ! ” answered Walter, an* 
grily ; “I never will mount it, as long as I 
live. I would n’t be so mean.” 

But Walter had little call to be envious 
of his brother, who was quite too weak to 
ride his pretty pony. A few rods only, 
gave him a severe pain in the side, — so 
very delicate was poor Charlie. 

This spring he seemed far worse than 
usual : he did not complain, but he daily 
grew weak and languid, till finally he could 
no longer be about 'the house. 

One afternoon, when he came from school, 
Walter found Charlie sitting up in his bed, 
writing ; but he hid his paper and pencil 
under the pillow, when he saw his brother, 
and hastily wiped away some tears which 


142 


little Charlie's will. 


were on his cheek. That very night he 
grew much worse ; a fever came on, and he 
was quite delirious. All night long they 
watched over him, with great anxiety ; and 
during the next day, though he was more 
quiet, and slept most of the time. When 
awake, he did not speak much, or seem to 
recognize any one. 

Just at sunset, Walter was sitting in his 
own chamber by the window, with his face 
hid in the curtains, — for he was grieving for 
his gentle brother, who was like to die, — 
when his mother entered, holding a paper in 
her hand. Walter saw that she had been 
weeping, as she said, “I found this paper 
under little Charlie's pillow ; you may read 
it, if you will." 

Walter opened it, saw that it was in 
Charlie's handwriting, and read, 

“my last will and testament. 

“ I leave to my dear mamma my gold- 
clasped Bible, my trunk, and all my clothes, 
except my new green cloth roundabout, 


little Charlie’s will. 


143 

which I leave to Cousin John, because he 
likes it, and it just fits him. To my papa 
I leave my pictures of Jesus Christ stilling 
the Tempest, and the fight between the 
‘ Constitution ’ and c Guerriere ,’ my seal 
of Hope and the anchor, and the ‘ Voyages 
of Captain Cook.’ To my sister Clara I 
leave my canaries, my pet squirrel, my 
flowers, and all my fairy story-books. To 
my brother Walter I give the rest of my 
library, my chessboard and men, my battle- 
dores and shuttle-cock, my rabbits, my dog, 
and my white pony : and when I am dead, 
I hope he will believe I have loved him 
dearly. Charles Harrison.” 

Walter wept bitterly over this will ; but 
when he had grown calm, he said, “ May I 
go to him, mother ? ” “If you will promise 
not to disturb him,” she answered. Walter 
promised, and stole softly into the dim 
chamber where Charlie was now alone, 
sleeping quietly. He knelt down by the 
bedside, hid his face in the counterpane. 


144 


little Charlie’s will. 


and silently prayed God to forgive all his 
sins, to give him a better heart, and to make 
his brother well again. Suddenly he felt a 
soft hand laid on his head. He looked up, 
and Charlie’s mild blue eyes were smiling 
on him. “ Come and lie by my side,” he 
said ; and Walter laid himself down there, 
and the brothers again embraced, and kissed 
each other. 

As thus they lay, talking softly and 
sweetly together, they heard some unusual 
noise below, and then their mother coming 
up stairs with some one who stepped a little 
heavier. It was their father, returned from 
his longest and last sea voyage ! Now he 
promised to stay at home with them always. 

The return of Captain Harrison did more 
than medicine to cure his little son, who 
soon became stronger than he had ever been 
before. 

One afternoon, when Charlie had been a 
fortnight about the house, it was arranged 
that he should take a short ride on his white 
pony, soon after breakfast, the next day. 


little Charlie’s will. 


145 


When Walter came down in the morning, 
his mother kissed him more tenderly than 
usual, and his father, shaking hands with 
him heartily, wished him many happy re- 
turns of the day. Walter looked as though 
he did not know what to make of this, and 
his mother said, “ Why, my son, is it pos- 
sible you have forgotten this is your birth- 
day ? ” 

“Ah, yes, mamma,” he answered; “I 
only remembered that it was Charlie’s first 
day out.” 

“And so,” said his father, “you are to 
give him a ride ; pray, what are you to 
do?” 

“0, I ’ll trot along by his side, on foot. 
I believe I can outrun that pony, now.” 

When breakfast was over, Walter helped 
his brother into the saddle, and was arrang- 
ing the bridle, when Charlie called out, joy- 
fully, “Look there, brother!” pointing with 
his riding-whip to another white pony, 
somewhat larger than his own, standing on 
the other side of the yard. Walter ran to 


146 


little Charlie's will. 


it, took off a slip of paper which was pinned 
to the rein, and read : “ Will Walter, our 
first-born and beloved son, accept this birth- 
day gift from his parents ? ” 

Walter laid his face against the slender, 
arching neck of his beautiful horse, and 
burst into tears. But he was too happy to 
weep long ; he soon ran into the house, 
thanked and kissed his father and mother, 
ran out again, mounted, and rode off with 
his brother. 

They had a fine ride. They had many 
fine rides together in the years that fol- 
lowed ; for Charlie continued to improve, 
till he became quite strong and vigorous. 
As for Walter, he always kept his robust 
health ; he did not grow to be handsome, 
but he became what is far better, truly 
amiable and agreeable. Even Aunt Hannah 
Perkins grew to liking him, at last ; and 
Uncle Walter Rogers, who sent him to col- 
lege, has been heard to declare that he 
shall leave him all his fortune, — knowing 
that he will not hoard it like a miser, or 


little Charlie's will. 


147 


waste it like a spendthrift, but so use it as 
to do a great deal of good, and make a 
great many people happy. But I do not 
believe that the writing that gives to Walter 
Harrison a large sum of money, land, and 
houses, will ever he so dear to him as a 
little scrap of paper, which he keeps among 
his most valuable and sacred things in his 
private desk, and on which he has written, 
“ Little Charlie's Will." 


THE HERMIT. 


I know an old man, with snowy white hair, 

And figure all bony, and swarthy, and spare ; 

With a long Roman nose, like a parrot’s hooked beak, 
And little cross eyes, all rheumy and weak ; 

Like an odd piece of crockery laid on the shelf, 

This funny old man lives away by himself ; — 

Alone, alone, all, all alone, 

In a mouldering mill, with moss o’ergrown ; 

Too lonesome for dogs and for sociable cats, 

And only not too much battered for bats ; — 

Down in a hollow, dark, swampy, and damp, 

Where frogs might have agues, and die of the cramp, 
And feathery owls be a-cold, — 

There he grindeth his corn, and maketh his bread, 
And stirreth the straw that formeth his bed ; 

There taketh he patches, and needle and thread, 

And mendeth his garments old. 

Sometimes he sings a dismal old tune, 

In a small, cracked voice ; sometimes, at noon, 

When the sun is warm, and the wind from the south 
He falls fast asleep, — with his pipe in his mouth. 


THE HERMIT. 


149 


This old, old man was once a child, — 

How strange it seems ! — was once a child ; 
Over his cradle a father smiled, 

And a mother, on her gentle breast, 

Sung and hushed him into rest, 

Smoothed from his forehead the silky soft hair, 
And kissed the cheek of her baby fair. 

Perhaps, as on her lap he lay, 

He saw proud brothers round him play, 

Who brought him toys to check his cries, 

And sisters laughed at his cunning cross-eyes. 

Where are they now ? All gone — all gone ! 
Dead and buried these many years ; 

And now, alack ! he never hears, 

Day or night, one kindred tone ! 

He never looks on a loving face, — 

The last of all his humble race, 

The poor old fellow must die alone ! 

But little cares he. For the Lord of all, 

Who heeds the sparrows when they fall, 

He trusts to forgive his errors past, 

And see him safe in heaven at last. 


i 


EFFIE GREY’S SLEEP-WALKING 


Effie Grey, though one of the sweetest, 
was one of the most singular girls in the 
world. She seemed to have two distinct 
lives. Almost every bright moonshiny 
night, she was up, softly walking about the 
house, and sometimes in the garden and 
yard, all in her sleep. Sometimes she dimly 
remembered these rambles, as though she 
had dreamed of them, but oftenest she had 
not the least recollection of them. In dark 
or unpleasant nights, she seldom was known 
to go abroad ; but when disposed to take a 
stroll by moonlight, nothing could prevent 
her ; for she moved so quietly and softly, 
that she awoke no one ; and if she found the 
doors locked and the keys taken away, she 
would escape by the windows. 

When Effie was fifteen or sixteen yeara 
old, she outgrew this strange habit, and 


EFFIE GREY'S SLEEP-WALKING. 151 


learned to sleep quietly in her bed, like 
other people. Some two years before, how- 
ever, an odd adventure happened to her. 
It was this : 

On a pleasant Saturday afternoon, early 
in the autumn, Effie, with her two brothers, 
Jamie and Archie, and three or four of her 
schoolmates, went into the woods to gather 
wild grapes. The boys would climb the 
trees, break off the ripe clusters, and drop 
them into the spread aprons of the girls ; 
sometimes they would tear away whole 
vines, and fling them to the ground. 

Altogether, they had a right merry time, 
though they were somewhat disappointed in 
not getting quite so many nice grapes as 
they expected to find. Many of the vines 
grew so much in the shade, that the fruit 
was stunted and sour. 

On their way home, they perceived across 
a dark stream a large vine, which, growing 
from between two rocky ledges, clambered 
up the almost perpendicular bank, and hung 
its rich clusters of purple fruit over the 


152 EFFIE grey's sleep-walking. 

water. These were by far the largest and 
ripest grapes the children had seen, and 
they stood for some moments looking at 
them with longing eyes. But they ceuld 
only be gathered by climbing the bank from 
the water, and not even the boys were 
brave enough for such an exploit ; for, 
though the stream was not deep, it was 
very black and miry. So they all went on 
their way, leaving the grapes for the wild 
birds to feast upon, at their leisure. 

That night, Eflie was for a long time too 
tired to sleep. She tossed and turned on 
her soft bed, as though it had been stuffed 
with corn-stalks, or even chestnut-burs. 
She lived over the toilsome sport of the 
afternoon : now scrambling after grapes ; 
now tumbling over logs, and breaking her 
way through bushes ; and, last before she 
went to sleep, she thought longingly on 
those nice, ripe, un-get-atable grapes, hang- 
ing over the creek. 

When Effie awoke in the morning, she 
felt strangely lame and stiff ; and when she 


effie grey’s sleep-walking. 153 


thrust her feet out of bed, what was her 
astonishment to find them all covered with 
thick black mud ! The linen sheets of her 
led, so snowy clean the night before, were 
now in a shocking condition ; and, from a 
window opening on to a piazza, led miry 
foot-prints across the nice rush matting. 
But, strangest of all, on the table stood a 
large basket, filled with grapes ; she re- 
membered having seen that basket on the 
piazza the night before. Effie saw, at once, 
that she had gone in her sleep, at some hour 
of the moonlight night, for the grapes which 
had tempted her so much in the daytime ; 
and she burst into a passionate fit of crying, 
from a feeling half grief, half shame, which 
she ’could hardly herself understand. Her 
first thought was to conceal the adventure 
from everybody. She could easily wash the 
mud from her feet and ankles ; but what 
was she to do with her soiled night-dress, 
the bed-clothes, and the matting ? 

She must tell her mother ; there was no 
help for it. She must bear, as best she 


154 EFFIE GREY V S SLEEP-WALKING. 

could, her father's jokes, and the laughter 
of her merry brothers. But then she had 
the grapes, — that was some consolation. 

Early in the winter that followed, James 
Grey, Effie's eldest brother, died quite 
suddenly, of brain fever, caused, it was 
thought, by too hard study in preparing for 
college ; for James was a remarkably stu- 
dious and ambitious boy, and had never 
been very strong. He had been lovely in 
his life, and in his death he was mourned 
by all who knew him ; but his father 
grieved most bitterly of all. It had always 
been said that Jamie was Judge Grey's 
favorite child. I do not know how that was, 
but it surely seemed that when the noble 
boy was called away into “ the better land," 
his father must go too. Day and night he 
groaned and wept for his dear dead son. 
He neither ate nor slept ; he seemed not to 
know what was passing around him, and to 
have almost forgotten that he had yet living 
children, and a true, loving wife. 

A few months before this son's death, 


EFFIE GREY’S SLEEP-WALKING. 


155 


.Judge Grey had taken him to sit to a good 
artist, who had painted a fine portrait of 
him, which was prettily framed, and hung 
in a little parlor where the family met for 
prayers, and where they could look at it 
night and morning, when Jamie should be 
far away at college. Now the poor father 
would stand before this picture hour after 
hour, with his arms folded on his breast, the 
tears slowly sliding down his cheeks ; and 
now and then he would give a sigh, — oh, 
so deep and sorrowful ! At last, when this 
had continued for many days, Effie went 
gently up to him, took his hand in hers, and 
tried to lead him away ; but he would not 
go. Then her mother came, and wound her 
arms about him, and pleaded with him, for 
her sake, and the children’s sake, to stand 
no longer grieving before that portrait ; yet 
still he would not go. 

Late that night, after all the rest of the 
family had retired, and wept themselves to 
sleep, he stood with a lamp in his hand, 
gazing on the likeness of his lost boy. It 


156 effie grey's sleep-walking. 

was hard to say good-night to that smiling 
face, for there was no more any good night 
or good morning for him. 

In the morning, when the family came 
together, what was their surprise to find a 
thick veil drawn closely over Jamie's por- 
trait ! Judge Grey was much agitated, and 
asked who had done this. Mrs. Grey knew 
nothing of it ; but when Effie was ques- 
tioned, she said, timidly, “ I remember 
thinking, last night, that the picture should 
be veiled, a little while, for your sake, 
father ; and that is all I know about it." 

Mrs. Grey then offered to remove the 
veil ; but her husband said, 

“ Let it remain, Mary. I have been rightly 
reproved for my selfish grieving ; and I 
will not look on that dear face again until 
I can say, £ The Lord gave, and the Lord 
hath taken away ; blessed be the name of 
the Lord.' " 

As month after month went by, Judge 
Grey grew more resigned and cheerful. lie 
began, at last, to talk freely of his lost son ; 


EFFIE grey’s sleep-walking. 157 


he could even smile at the recollection of 
some of the light-hearted hoy’s wild tricks 
and funny sayings. But he never removed 
the veil from the portrait, though he knew 
that no one else would prosume to take it 
away. He feared that his heart was not yet 
strong and submissive enough to look calmly 
on that pleasant face, that always smiled on 
his tears. 

One night, early in June, as the Greys 
were all standing on the vine-shaded piazza, 
in the moonlight, listening to the low mur- 
mur of the brook which ran near the door, 
and breathing in the fragrance of roses, 
Effie heard her father say to her mother, 
44 Do you remember, Mary, that to-morrow 
will be Jamie’s birth-day ? He would have 
been fifteen, had God left him with us. 
How he used to enjoy a night like this ! 
and he had a real girlish love of roses.” 

44 But, my dear husband,” answered Mrs. 
Grey, 44 we know there is no lack of light 
and flowers, and all beautiful things, where 
our Jamie is gone.” 


158 effie grey’s sleep-walking. 


But next morning, when the family gath- 
ered together in the little parlor, to thank 
God for his care of them through the night, 
the first thing that met the eyes of parents 
and children was Jamie’s portrait, with the 
dark veil taken away, and a beautiful wreath 
of roses hanging in its place ! 

All looked at Effie, who turned pale, then 
blushed deeply, and burst into tears. “ Did 
I do it, mother?” she sobbed out; “in- 
deed, indeed, I cannot remember.” 

“ I think you must have done it, my dear 
daughter,” replied Mrs. Grey. 

“Yes, Effie,” said her father, folding 
her in his arms, “ it was you, or some other 
angel.” 

And this was the last of Effie Grey ’a 
sleep-walking. 


Do not always weep, when thinking 
Of the loved ones early gone ; 

And their names speak not so sadly, — 
Breathe them in a pleasant tone. 


EFEIE grey’s sleep-walking. 159 


Think of them as dear lambs, kindly 
Borne away from storm and cold, 

By the tender shepherd, J esus, — 

Gathered safely to the fold. 

Think not of the dreary graveyard, 

When comes on the wintry even ; — 

Think how beautiful the place is, 

They call home, and we call heaven. 

Sweetest, brightest thoughts weave round them, 
When their faces you recall, — 

Even as Effie crowned with roses 
Jamie’s picture on the wall. 


LIZZIE IN THE MILL. 


Many years ago, in a pleasant village of 
New England, lived the little girl whose true 
story I am about to relate, — Lizzie Stone, 
the only daughter of the miller. 

Lizzie was a child whom everybody loved ; 
not only because she was so pretty, lively, 
and intelligent, but for her being so sweet, 
gentle, and peaceable, — so truly good. 
Lizzie had two brothers a few years older 
than herself, who were very fond of her, 
and of whom she was very fond. These 
three children always went to school and to 
church together, and played in perfect 
agreement. 

It happened that one sunny autumn after- 
noon they had a visit from two little girls, 
their cousins, who lived about a mile dis- 
tant. They had a wild, joyous time ; they 
played in the yard, in the barn, and all over 


LIZZIE IN THE MILL. 


161 


the house. Mrs. Stone, who was a kind, 
pleasant woman, looked on and laughed, if 
she did not mingle in their sport. She got 
them a nice early tea by themselves ; and, 
when the visiters, after one last merry game, 
were about leaving, she said to Lizzie, 

“ Your brothers will go home with Alice 
and Celia. You may go with them as far 
as the mill ; but be sure to stop there, 
and come home with your father.” 

As the cousins set out, laughing and frol- 
icking along, Mrs. Stone stood in the little 
front portico of her cottage, looking after 
them, as they went down the lane, and 
thinking what handsome, and happy, and, 
above all, what good children they were. 
She smiled at Lizzie’s affectionate way of 
taking leave of her, though she was to be 
gone so short a time. Lizzie never parted 
from her mother, even for a half-hour, with- 
out kissing her lovingly, and bidding her 
good-by in a voice as sweet and tender as 
the cooing of a dove. Now, as Mrs. Stone 
went into the house, she said softly to her- 


162 


LIZZIE IN THE MILL. 


self, “ It is nearly ten years since God gave 
me that child, and she has never yet caused 
me one moment's sorrow/' 

The children played so much along the 
road, and stopped so often to pick flowers 
and berries, that it was nearly dark when 
they reached the mill. Then, when the 
girls came to part, they had yet so many 
things to tell to each other, so many invita 
tions to give, so many good-by's to say, it 
was no wonder that they lingered a while. 

It seemed that Lizzie could not let her 
cousins go. She parted from them, in her 
loving way, so many times, that her brothers 
grew a little impatient, and George, the 
eldest, said, “Why, sister, I don’t see but 
that Ned and I will have to help you in your 
kissing, or you 'll never get through." 

Then Alice and Celia, blushing and laugh- 
ing, broke away from their cousin, and ran 
fast down a little hill towards their home. 
The boys soon overtook them ; and Lizzie, 
after watching the group a while, and think- 
ing how good was God to give her such amiable 


LIZZIE IN THE MILL. 


163 


cousins, such noble brothers, and such dear 
parents to love, turned and went into the 
mill. She found it going, and was almost 
frightened by the din it made, and by the 
darkness ; for night was fast coming on. 
She called her father’s name, and he an- 
swered ; but the machinery made so much 
noise that she did not hear. Thinking that 
he had already gone, she turned to go home 
alone. She took a way she had often safely 
taken, over the flume, by the great water- 
wheel. But to-night she was bewildered, — 
lost her footing, and fell off on to the wheel, 
which whirled her down, down, crushing 
and tearing her in a shocking manner ! It 
happened that just at that moment her 
father, thinking that Lizzie had been sent 
to call him home, stopped the mill, and be- 
gan to search for her. Led by her cries, he 
came to the wheel, and there found what 
had occurred. “Are you badly hurt, my 
daughter ? ” he asked, in great grief and 
terror. “ Yes, father. I seem to be all 
crushed to pieces, and I cannot stir ; but 1 


164 


LIZZIE IN THE MILL. 


think 1 shall live till you get me out. Leave 
me here, and go for help." 

The neighborhood was soon roused, and 
many men hurried, with saws and axes, to 
the mill. But they found that only one or 
two could work at a time in cutting away 
the strong, heavy timbers, and that it would 
be some hours before Lizzie could be taken 
from the cruel place where she was held so 
fast, and crushed so dreadfully ; and they 
said that to move the wheel backward or 
forward might kill her at once. 

When Mrs. Stone came, one of the men 
let down a light into the wheel, so that she 
could see her poor child. When she saw 
Lizzie's white face, and the bleeding arms 
held toward her, she shrieked and cried bit- 
terly. But Lizzie called up to her as sweetly 
and cheerfully as she had ever spoken in 
her life, and said, “ Don't cry, mother! 
They will get me out before long ; keep up 
good courage, and pray to God for me." 

And so she continued to talk, hour aftei 
hour, while the men kept cutting and saw> 


LIZZIE IN THE MILL. 


165 


ing at the great timbers : so she cheered 
and comforted her parents, and her poor 
brothers, when they too came to the mill. 

Once her voice grew very low and in- 
distinct, — then it ceased altogether : the 
doctor looked down, and said she had fainted 
away y and they sprinkled water upon her. 
As soon as she revived, she began again to - 
say comforting things, and to beg her mother 
and brothers not to cry. She said she did 
not suffer so much pain as at first, and that 
she was sure she should live to he carried 
home. 

It was nearly midnight when the last tim- 
ber that held her w its sawed away, and a 
workman lifted her gently up, and laid her 
in her father's arms. The pain of being 
moved caused the poor child to faint again, 
and she did not revive until she had been 
carried home. When she opened her eyes, 
she found herself on her own little bed, with 
her dear father and mother and brothers at 
her side. 

The doctor carefully dressed Lizzie's 


166 


LIZZIE IN THE MILL. 


wounds, and gave her some opium to make 
her sleep ; but he told her father and mother 
that she could not possibly get well. When 
he heard the dreadful words, Mr. Stone 
groaned, and covered his face with his 
hands ; and, for a few moments, Mrs. Stone 
leaned her head on her husband’s shoulder, 
and cried. Then, lifting her eyes, and 
clasping her hands, she said, “ Thy will, oh 
Lord, be done ! ” and went and sat down 
calmly by Lizzie’s s;de, and watched her 
till she slept. 

The poor little girl remained sleeping most 
of the next day. She would often wake, and 
ask for water ; but she then seemed hardly to 
know where she was, or who was with her. 
Her cousins, Alice and Celia, came to see 
her ; but she did not recognize them, and 
they went away, sobbing bitterly. 

Early in the night, however, she awoke, 
and seemed better. She knew all about 
her, and smiled on them, but said that she 
must leave them very soon. She told her 
father that she wanted to hear him pray once 


LIZZIE IN THE MILL. 


167 


more ; and Mr. Stone knelt down by he! 
bedside, and asked God to take safely home 
the little daughter he had given them, and 
thanked him for leaving her with them so 
long. Then Lizzie said to her mother, 
“ Will you sing me just one verse of the 
hymn I love so much, ‘Jesus sought me’ ? ” 
Her mother tried, but she could not sing 
for weeping ; and Lizzie said, ££ Never 
mind, — where I am going, there is beautiful 
singing. Yet it seems to me I shall hear 
no voice so sweet as yours, mamma. Why 
do you cry? Only think, mamma, if I 
should live, now, how crooked and sickly 
I should be. I might be a poor hunchback, 
and give a great deal of trouble and sorrow 
to you all. Will it not be better to bury up 
this crushed body, and let the pleasant grass 
grow over it, and have a new and glorious 
body, such as the angels have ? ” 

As she spoke these words, she smiled, and 
did not weep ; but when, afterwards, she 
asked for a faithful house-dog, and her 
pretty Maltese kitten, and they were brought 


168 


LIZZIE IN THE MILL. 


to her, she hurst into tears. 44 Good-by, old 
Bose ! good-by, Kitty ! ” she said. 44 1 
cry, mamma, to part from these, because I 
never, never shall see them again ; for they 
have no souls, poor things ! But you and 
papa will come to heaven before many years; 
and you, too, brothers, if you are good boys.” 

A little while after this, she said, “Geor- 
gie, give my love to Alice and Celia, and 
tell them I am glad I kissed them so many 
times last night. Eddie, take care of my 
flowers : and, boys, don’t miss me too much 
in your play,” 

After lying very quiet for some moments, 
she again spoke, and said, 

44 Mamma, are the shutters open, and 
has the morning come very brightly? ” 

44 No, my daughter,” her mother an- 
swered, 44 it is still dark night.” 

44 0, then,” said Lizzie, 44 it must be the 
windows of God’s beautiful palace I see, 
with the pleasant light shining through. I 
am almost there ! Good-by, mamma, and 
papa, and brothers, good-by ! ” and, with a 


LIZZIE IN THE MILL. 


169 


smile spread over her face, Lizzie stretched 
out her arms, looked upward, and so died ! 

When Lizzie lay in her coffin, that smile 
was on her sweet face still, — brighter and 
purer than the white roses that lay upon her 
pillow, — and Mrs. Stone tried not to let her 
tears fall upon it ; for she said, “ God has 
taken back a little angel he lent to me for a 
few years, and why should I weep for my 
happy, happy child ? ” 


LIZZIE GONE. 

Lizzie lieth cold and still, 

In the church-yard on the hill, 
Where the winter winds shall rave, 
All night long, around her grave; — 
Poor' little Lizzie ! 

She ’ll not breathe the airs of spring, 
Nor hear the tuneful robin sing ; 

She ’ll not feel the sun’s bright glow, 
Nor see the early violets blow ; — 
Poor little Lizzie ! 

She ’ll not join her brothers’ play, 
Through the sunny days of May ; 


LIZZIE IN THE MILL. 


Nor mark how God his love discloses, 

In the coming forth of roses * — 

Poor little Lizzie ! 

She k glean the yellow grain no more, 

No/ taste the orchard’s ripened store, 

Nor see the leaves, in autumn hours, 

Come down in gold and crimson showers ; — 
Poor little Lizzie ! 

. She ’ll not run to meet, again, 

Her dear tired father in the lane ; 

Nor hear her mother’s Sabbath-singing, 

Nor the church-bells’ solemn ringing ; — 
Poor little Lizzie ! 

She hath left the love and mirth, 

All the sights and sounds of earth, 

Long before her life’s bright noon, — 

Must she go to sleep so soon ? — 

Poor little Lizzie ! 

Say not so ; for cold and still, 

In the church-yard on the hill, 

Only her crushed body lies ; — 

Far in holy Paradise 

Lives the soul of Lizzie * 

Where the fair and sweet-breathed flowers 
Die not in the pleasant bowers ; 


LIZZIE IN THE MILL. 


And the lovely time of roses 
Never fades and never closes, — 

There dwelleth Lizzie ! 

Where the tuneful waters flow, 

Comes no night, nor winter’s snow, — 
For the sunshine all abroad 
Is the constant smile of God, — 

There dwelleth Lizzie ! 

Where the seraphs, winged and crowned, 
With their harps make sweetest sound, — 
Where the blessed angels sing 
Glad hosannas to their King, — 

There singeth Lizzie ! 

She will feel no cruel pain, 

She will never cry again ; 

For the Lord, once crucified, 

Who in bitter anguish died, 

Comforts little Lizzie. 

Leaning on his tender breast, 

W ho the little children blessed, 

Waiting till her dear ones come, 

Till the Father calls them homo, » 

Happy angel Lizzie 1 


JACK AND HIS JACK-O’LANTEKNS. 


Near the small village of H , in one 

of our Western States, may be seen an old 
fort, built by the French, at the time of the 
French and Indian war, many years ago. 
This stands N on a small hill, near the turn- 
pike ; and, as the walls are much broken 
down, and grown over with grass and shrub- 
bery, it is a very pretty place, indeed. 

Some years since, there came to reside in 
H an Englishman by the name of Hen- 

derson. He was a hard, severe -looking 
man, whom nobody knew anything about, 
except that he seemed to possess consider- 
able property, that he had a meek, sad-faced 
wife, and four very idle, good-for-nothing 
boys. There was also in his family a dark, 
slender child, about eleven years of age, 
who seemed to be a sort of an adopted son. 
This John Elliot proved to be a very strange 


JACK AND HIS JACK-0 LANTERNS. 173 


boy, — almost as shy and wild as a young 
savage. Nobody appeared to care for him ; 
he was seldom seen with the other members 
of the family, but spent most of his time 
in the fields and woods, coarsely, if not 
shabbily dressed, and often without shoes 
or hat. He was never seen rambling or at 
play with the Henderson boys, who, it was 
said, were far from kind to him ; and their 
father was known to treat him very cruelly. 
He was never sent to school, or to church ; 
it may be that he could not have been per- 
suaded to go, he was so exceedingly shy 
always. He never could be prevailed upon 
to enter a neighbor’s house; and seemed 
afraid to converse many minutes at a time 
with any one, though he would answer very 
civilly any question put to him. He never 
complained of the hard treatment he had at 
home, but surely his sad face and neglected 
look were complaint enough. 

Every one who heard him speak noticed 
that he had a voice of remarkable sweet- 
ness ; and he seemed to have a talent for 


174 JACK AND HIS JACK-O’LANTERNS. 

music ; for he would sing, when he thought 
himself quite alone, wild, mournful, com- 
plaining airs ; but nobody could ever -catch 
the sense of the words, and very likely they 
had little meaning. 

John, or Jack , as the Hendersons always 
called him, seemed to take to the fort from 
the first. He spent hour after hour there 
searching for the stone arrow-heads, pipes 
and beads, of the Indians, and rusty buckles, 
bullets, and bayonets, of the French soldiers. 
At one time he dug up an old iron-hilted 
sword, with only about an inch of the point 
broken off ; this he hung at his side, by a 
leathern belt, and for months was never seen 
without it. 

It happened that the summer Jack came 
to H , Miss Ellen Hayward, the minis- 

ter’s daughter, a very sweet young lady, was 
in delicate health, and was in the habit of 
walking every morning. Often she went to 
the fort, and, after climbing the little hill, 
would sit down to rest on the grassy em- 
bankment. 


JACK AND HIS JACK-O’LANTERNS. 175 


After a long time, she became acquainted 
with Jack, who interested her very much. 

Once she asked him to tell her about the 
Hendersons and himself. He looked all 
around them, as though he feared some one 
might overhear him, before he answered 
He said he believed that Mr. Henderson was 
not nearly related to him ; that once, when 
he was very small, he lived in a beautiful 
home, where there never was any winter, 
but where the flowers were always bright, 
and the trees green ; that he remembered a 
tall man, in soldier’s dress, his papa, and a 
sweet, kind mamma. He said he recol- 
lected that one morning somebody came to 
him, and told him his mamma was dead, and 
he was never to see her any more ; and that 
afterwards his papa took him to a ship, and, 
after kissing him many times, left him there 
with a nurse ; and that they sailed day after 
day, over the sea, till they reached England, 
when Mr. Henderson came on board, and 
took them to his home. The next thing 
he remembered was, that one morning his 


176 JACK AND HIS JACK-o’LANTERNS. 

good nurse kissed him, and cried over him a 
long time, and said they were going to send 
her away ; she went, and he never saw her 
again. Then he was sent to a great noisy 
school for some years ; then they all came to 
America, where they had moved from place 
to place, till they settled at II . 

“ Poor boy ! ” said Miss Hayward, when 
Jack had finished his little story. “ You 
have had a hard time, so far ; but cheer up ! 
your father will come for you, yet.” 

“ No, no ! ” cried Jack, throwing himself 
down on the ground, and hiding his face in 
the long grass ; “ he will never come so far 
for me, — he will never find me. And then 
I ’m afraid he has been killed, long ago, — 
my brave soldier-papa ! ” 

“I think,” said Miss Hayward, “that 
you must have been born in India, and that 
your father was an English officer.” 

“I think so, too,” said Jack; “but I 
never could get anybody to tell me anything 
about it. I know my papa was a British 
soldier ; for he wore a red coat, and because 


JACK AND HIS JAC K- 0 ' LANTERNS. 177 


I love swords, bayonets, forts, and all such 
things, and think ‘ God save the King ’ a 
braver fighting tune than 4 Yankee Doodle.' ” 
The next day Miss Hayward brought Jack 
that sweet East-Indian story, by Mrs. Sher- 
wood, called “Little Henry and his Bear- 
er." Scarcely had she read a page to him, 
before he cried out, joyfully, 

“0, I had just such a home as that ! I 
had just such a bearer as Boosy, who car- 
ried me on his back everywhere. 0, I was 
born in India ! — I was born in India ! ” 
And Jack was right. The true story of 
John Charles Elliot, as it afterwards came 
out, was this. He was the only child of 
English parents, and was born at a military 
station near Calcutta. He was a delicate 
boy, about five years old, when his mother 
died ; and his father, Captain Elliot, fearing 
that he could not live in the climate of India, 
sent him to England, and placed him under 
the care of a cousin and an old school-mate 
of his own, Mr. Henderson ; for it happened 
that neither the father nor the mother of the 


178 JACK AND HIS JACK- 0* LANTERNS. 

boy had any near relations then living in 
England. Captain Elliot had great con- 
fidence in Mr. Henderson ; he made him 
the guardian of his son, and placed in his 
hands little John’s entire fortune, left to him 
by his mother. But the frank, honest sol- 
dier was deceived in his cousin, who was a 
wicked, dishonest man. All the while that 
Mr. Henderson was writing pleasant, friendly 
letters to Captain Elliot, far in India, he was 
treating very ill his lonely little boy, and 
even using for himself and his family the 
money rightly belonging to John. 

He sent away the lad’s nurse, and forbade 
ever)' one in the family to talk with him 
about India, for fear that, when he was old 
enough, he would write to his father, and 
tell him how he was treated. 

When Mr. Henderson left England for 
America, with his family, it was because he 
feared that Captain Elliot was coming home, 
and would find out what a villain he had 
been for so many years. Of course, he did 
not write to the captain that he was about 


JACK AND HIS JACK-O’LANTERNS. 179 


to leave England ; and after he had left, he 
did not write at all : so, for two years, poor 
Captain Elliot heard not a word from his 
little son. 

Jack was not altogether sad. He had a 
quiet love of mischief and fun, which showed 
itself in an amusing way, the summer he 

spent at H . It chanced that some silly 

men got it into their heads that there was 
money buried somewhere in the old fort, 
and went to work digging for it. 

Though, like Jack, they found nothing 
but arrow-heads, pipe-bowls, and pieces of 
old guns and swords, they were not dis- 
couraged ; for they had consulted a famous 
fortune-teller, who, after looking very sol- 
emnly in a blue tea-cup, for ten minutes, told 
them that “ Somewheres inside of the fort, 
the French sartin buried five great iron pots 
full of gold and silver.” She told them 
that they must always begin to dig just at 
midnight. And so, from twelve till the 
cock crew for daylight, a watcher might see 


180 JACK AND HIS JACK-O’lANTERNS. 


their lanterns burning on old Fort Hill, and 
hear the sound of their pickaxes and spades. 

Well, one evening Jack went alone to the 
fort, carrying a spade and an iron dinner- 
pot. He then dug a new hole, very near 
the last place where the men had been 
digging, pressed the pot down into the earth 
with all his strength, so that it would leave 
a deep impression, then took it up, hid it in 
the bushes, and hid himself there until the 
gold-diggers came. Presently, he heard 
one of the men call out, “ Hallo ! — some 
thief has been here, and stole one of our 
money-pots ! Now, boys, for the other 
four, — they must be somewhere near ! ” 

As you may suppose, they went to work 
harder than ever ; and it was broad daylight 
before they gave up, shouldered pickaxe 
and spade, and went home. 

The next day, Jack told his friend Miss 
Hayward of the joke he had played off on 
the foolish fellows who were spoiling the 
fort by digging such great holes in the 
ground. The story was soon all over town, 


JACK AND mS JACK- O’ LANTERNS. 181 


and the gold-diggers were completely 
laughed out of their folly. 

Close behind the fort lay a large marsh ; 
and, in the dark nights of the autumn, this 
was all lit up with brilliant jack- o’ lanterns. 
They even came pouring over the walls, and 
danced about in the old fort as though they 
were having rare frolics together. Strange 
to say, Jack Elliot — who, people began to 
think, was not in his right mind — might 
often be seen with them there ; — dancing 
with the merriest, chasing the swiftest, call- 
ing to them as though they were real play- 
mates, and singing more wildly than ever. 

One night in October, as a traveller on 
horseback was passing the fort, he observed 
the jack-o’lanterns, who were out in great 
numbers. He checked his horse to watch 
their shining play, and presently he saw a 
slight, dark figure moving about with them. 
It was Jack, at his nightly frolic with his 
friends. The gentleman felt curious to know 
what that strange boy was about ; so dis- 
mounted, went softly up the hill, and hid 


182 JACK AND HIS JACK- O’ LANTERNS. 

among the bushes, near where Jack was 
shouting, laughing, and striving in vain to 
catch the dancing lights in his arms. Sud- 
denly the boy began singing, in his sweet, 
wild voice, such words as, 

“ Dance, dance around me ! Don’t fly so high ! 

Don’t run away, now, be good, and come back ! 

Bright jack-o’lanterns ! merry jack-o’ lanterns ! 

Only play-fellows of poor little Jack ! ” 

That voice ! oh, it sounded to the stran- 
ger like the voice of his dear young wife, 
dead these many years ; and like the voice 
of her boy and his, sent away from him 
long ago, and for whom he had sought vainly 
in England and America, — for the stranger 
was Captain Elliot ! 

He now sprang forward, and caught Jack 
in his arms, saying, “0 my boy! my dear 
boy ! thank God, I have found you at last ! 99 

Jack was never known to be frightened, 
or even startled ; so now he said, quite 
calmly, but joyfully, “Papa! my brave 
soldier-papa ! is it you ? I thought you 
never were coming, — never, never ! ” 


JACK AND HIS JACK- 0* LANTERNS. 183 


In a short time there were great changes 
with the Hendersons. They were obliged to 
give up the little that now remained of John 
Elliot's property, and to begin to live like 
poor people, as they were. For the sake 
of Mrs. Henderson, who had been as kind 
to John as she dared to be, Captain Elliot 
did not punish her husband as severely as 
he deserved ; but everybody despised and 
shunned the family, as long as they remained 

in H . It would take me a long time 

to tell just how Captain Elliot found his 
son ; — how he followed Mr. Henderson 
from England to America, and tracked him 
from state to state, and town to town, till 
he reached that little village in the West. 

Captain Elliot was a tall, soldier-like per- 
son, still very handsome, though much sun- 
burned, and beginning to show a few white 
locks in the black curls around his forehead. 
He had left the army, and said he intended 
to return to England, and go to live with 
his son on some property of his own in the 
country. 


184 JACK AND HIS JACK-O’LANTERNS. 

It was noticed that Jack did not rest till 
he brought his father acquainted with his 
only friend, Miss Hayward, the minister’s 
daughter ; and it was also noticed that this 
pretty girl seemed to please the father full 
as well as the son. Soon the three might 
often be seen walking together to the old 
fort, — sometimes on jack-o’lantern nights. 
Then people began to say, “ I wonder what 
that Captain Elliot stays here so long for ? 
His business is all done ; and it ’s getting 
rather late in the season to cross the ocean.” 
And one good, careful, tea-drinking old 
lady said, 

“ It ’s well Ellen Hayward has got over 
her last spring’s sickness, or she’d run the 
risk of catching her death- cold, in taking so 
many evening walks.” 

One morning, early in November, Captain 
Elliot said to John, “ My son, put on your 
best suit of clothes ; I want you to go to 
church with me.” 

“ To church, papa ? ” said John ; “why, 
it is n’t Sunday.” 


JACK AND HIS JACK-O’LANTERNS. 185 


“I know that,” answered his father; 
“ but if I go up there this morning, the 
good minister will give his daughter Ellen 
to me, for my wife, and your mother ; and 
we may take her with us to England.” 

“ 0 papa, how glad I am ! ” cried John ; 
“you did this all to make me happy, — did 
you not ? ” Captain Elliot laughed, as he 
answered, “I am afraid I am not quite so 
good as that. I own I want Miss Hayward 
to finish taming my young savage ; but 
then I want her full as much for myself. 
She is a noble girl ! I think, John, that 
she looks very much as your mother did.” 

As John Charles Elliot took his sweet 
one friend, his new mamma, with him to 
England, there was nobody to mourn for 

him when he went from H ; in fact, 

nobody missed him much. One would have 
thought that the jack-o’ lanterns might have 
been sorry for his going ; but even they 
made light of it , and that very night danced 
away as merrily as ever. 



























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